Don't Kid a Kidder
by Rosy the Cat
Summary: Xavier's School is infamous for producing angsty costume clad students that seem to belong more in some Soap Opera. How then would the Professor deal with a young telepath that wants nothing to do with adventuring, costumes or angst? I give you Meg Kidder
1. Chapter 1

Don't Kid a Kidder By Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not own in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. 

Chapter 1

June 6th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

I've been hearing voices again. Nothing distinct, just vague murmurs in the back of my mind that you can occasionally tell are either male or female. I haven't said anything about it to Mom or Dad yet, as the last time Father Fredrick convinced them I was possessed and needed to be exorcised. I'm pretty sure I'm not, because I'm not having any weird impulses to stop wearing my cross or to not go to church or to skip my prayers. I'm pretty sure that those are the sorts of signs of possession they give in movies about that sort of thing. I certainly didn't feel any different after the last exorcism, other than tired and having to deal with bruises from where the priests holding me down just in case pushed too hard, and the headache I got from all of that incense they burned. Of course, the voices stopped that time a few days later. Maybe they'll go away again. 

Michelle Mitchell--and how freaky are her parents for coming up with such a stupid name--was being her usual cranky self today in choir. Apparently her oh-so-mature hair-pulling boyfriend broke up with her so he could date some poor deluded freshman. Apparently he did too good a job at skank-ify-ing Michelle and is trying to set a record. 

And people wonder why I don't date. 

Well, here's hoping for better things. Crap, it's getting late, and I have review tests for Biology tomorrow! 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

June 7th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

I'm pretty sure I aced the Bio review, as it was almost all about human skeletal and musculature identification. Go team me! 

Michelle spent an annoyingly large chunk of the class period yapping about how much over she was her boyfriend, and then proving herself a liar by ignoring the music and staring like a goggle-eyed carp at the guy, who was across the room with the baritones. The only reason why she didn't spend the entire period this way is because Miss Finch told her to focus on the music or get detention. It didn't really improve things all that much, because Michelle has all of the sense of tone and rhythm of a dying rabbit. I wish I'd made the auditions into the advanced choir, but I can't dance worth beans and that's rather important for a show choir. Thank God for church choir, even if there are far too many diva personalities there. 

That reminds me: Sister Helen is holding auditions for solos next week after church. I think I've made some real progress on my rendition of Beethoven's "Joy," so I might actually have a shot! 

The voices are following the same pattern as last time: they're getting a bit louder. I still can't understand what they're saying, but I'm getting kind of worried; I think they're being louder than they were on the second day last time. I wish it would all just stop and go away. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

June 9th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Sorry I skipped writing yesterday, but that Venom nutcase was rumored to be in the area, so all of the schools were closed and the Parental Types dragged me and the Dweeb Patrol out of the city to stay with Grandma Kidder. I would have written during the ride out here, but I had a bonehead moment and packed you in my duffle instead of my backpack. Just as well, I suppose; the triplets probably would have done something stupid like grab you and read you out loud if they'd got the chance. 

Why did my parents decide reproducing some more was a good idea again? Their reasoning eluded me at the time, and it still is rather suspect. 

Anyway, after I did most of my homework I went out to the barn and hung out with The Girls. Bessie's new calves are rather adorable--a boy and a girl-  
and Starshine's canter has smoothed out since her surgery. In all likelihood the schools will stay closed through the weekend, which is good because I haven't had a real chance to ride in the longest time, and I could use the quiet to study some more. The Dweebs have taken to wandering around and terrorizing the chickens, and Grandma says the potholes in the riding trail have been fixed. Yay! 

On a side note, the voices seem to leave me alone entirely when it's just me and the critters. I predict I acquire further tolerance to the smell of manure, as I can get some actual thinking done out there. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

June 30th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

My life sucks donkey turds. Things have gone completely bonkers since I last wrote, so this is gonna have to be a rather long entry. 

First of all, the voices? I was right and Father Fredrick was wrong: I'm not possessed, I'm a mutant. A telepathic mutant. Crazy, huh? Actually, now that I know what's going on, it's kind of cool. Except, of course, for the part where my control is wacky and I'm stuck at some all-mutant school, even though I was doing fine at my old one. I mean it's not like I sprouted horns or turned blue or anything! I could have stayed at my school and, I don't know, come out here on the weekends to learn how to keep other people out of my noggin. Mr. Xavier...sorry, "Professor" Xavier--where does he think he works, a college?--is a total weirdo. I mean, I suppose he's nice enough, and he has good intentions, but...

Sorry, I got sidetracked by my mini-rant. I need to explain what's been going on. 

So, yeah, the day after my last entry I spent most of the time out riding Starshine and exploring the woods. I haven't done something like that in years, but then again school and homework and choir and keeping the Dweebs from doing something stupid has kind of devoured my free time. It's amazing how peaceful it is when the only voice in your head is you own, I tell you. People who are neither me nor have powers like mine have no idea how lucky they are. I mean, your own mental voices can be confusing enough as they are—the subconscious is not quite the same as the conscious, m'kay?—but then add in all sorts of other people, and things go from confusing to psycho. Not fun. 

Now, after my day of fun in the sun and quiet, I got back to the house and WHAM! Instead of the usual murmuring and stuff, it's like I've got my entire family screaming—the sound level was screaming, they were actually just regular thinking—in my head. And let me tell you, the triplets? Their thoughts are freaky as it is, and then you multiply that times three because they have that whole "shared a womb, finish each other's thoughts" thing that you hear about twins having. 

So, I started screaming and trying to cover my ears and hide under the dining room table because I had no freakin' clue what was going on. And then it was getting even worse because my parents and grandma are scared, so their thoughts are panicky-y and even louder, and the Dweebs are alternating between thinking I'm a freak or that their greatest wish has come true and I'll be locked up in a nut-house or that it was something they did and they'll get in trouble. Grandma finally decided to be a tad more sensible and sent the Dweebs to get Dr. Bowers from down the road. Shortly after they got back and Dad managed to hold me down long enough to get a sedative in me, I conked out. 

The next thing I knew, I was in some weird hospital room with a bald guy and a redheaded woman staring at me like a bug on a slide. Me being the completely freaked-out person I was at that point, I demanded to know where I was, who they were, and where my parents were. That would have been fine, reasonable, and intelligent, if I hadn't done so in a high-pitched screechy tone with a side of panicked eyes. 

Hey, you would have too if you suddenly woke up in a strange place with strange people and nobody you knew was around. I'm sixteen, I'm allowed to be less than perfectly composed. I'm also allowed to want my mommy, thank you very much. 

So, the bald guy introduces himself as "Professor" Charles Xavier, and tells me how he runs a school for mutants, that I'm a mutant, and that he found me using some machine/computer/monstrosity—that last one's my definition, by the way—called Cerebro that makes his brain able to pinpoint mutants. Personally I think that's a very scary concept, but he didn't get why I thought it was scary. He's a telepath, like me—supposedly the most powerful one on the planet—and he was being rather rude. All the while he was telling me that story, he was yakking away with the redhead, whose name is apparently Jean. Dr. Jean Grey; I remembered seeing her on TV a couple of times at mutant debates in D.C.. 

Anyway, as I was saying, I'm lying there trying to focus on what Xavier's saying and on not being a spaz, at least until I can see my parents again, and suddenly I can hear two rather distinct voices in my head. The conversation was like this: 

Male Voice: You have spoken with her parents, I take it? 

Female Voice: Yes. They're scared, but taking it all remarkably well. 

Male Voice: You are certain they will agree for her to stay here? She'll need training. 

Female Voice: Undoubtedly. That attack of hers you picked up through Cerebro was quite violent, and they're mainly just relieved that there isn't anything wrong with her. Apparently she's had problems before, but a priest incorrectly diagnosed it as a demonic possession. 

Male Voice: Honestly! Some people come up with the silliest explanations for scientifically explainable phenomenon! 

Female Voice: In any case, the preliminary tests and reading indicate she'll be moderately powerful, at least. Also, her grades are good, and she apparently didn't have many, if any, friends at her old school, so that should make it an easier transition for her transfer here. 

Male Voice: Indeed. 

My Voice: SAY WHAT! 

It was at that point that they realized the incredulous look on my face had nothing to do with what they had been saying out loud. Now it's been almost three weeks, and I've been working with either Dr. Grey or Xavier. Dr. Grey's apparently both telepathic and telekinetic, which is cool. If she ever has a medical problem with her hands being too shaky to do surgery by hand, she could probably do it by holding a scalpel with her powers, as long as nobody distracted her. She gave me a weird look when I mentioned that, though. 

I'd like to be a doctor when I grow up. I know I've said it before, but Dr. Grey proves it's possible, as long as I can get my powers under control and study hard. I'd need to get a scholarship or three—and work part-time—in order to pay for college and med school, but it's quite possible. Heck, my powers could end up being an advantage: I could use them to find out what hurts where and that sort of thing with people who can't talk. That could be useful if I were a pediatrician, and I've always liked working with kids, the Dweebs being the exception. I think the main problem would be not cheating on tests and stuff; that would be a temptation to resist for sure. If I prove that the daughter of a blue-collar worker and granddaughter of a farmer can be a doctor, then I'm gonna do it by my own skills and knowledge, damn it. 

I wish my parents had talked to me before signing me up for this school, though. My old school might not have been all that great, but I was only a couple weeks away from the end of Sophomore year and at least there the principal didn't give me looks that seem to say "So what can I use you for?" 

Like I said earlier: Xavier is a complete and utter weirdo. 

Well, I've still got some unpacking to do; Mom and Dad have been shipping out some of my things for my room here because otherwise I'd be living out of my weekend duffle bag and backpack. Dr. Grey says that she'll show me around the school tomorrow and introduce me to some of the other kids that are staying the summer. I get the impression that the kids who are not me and staying the summer are doing so because their parents kicked them out, whereas I'm here so I can learn how to keep everybody else out of my brain without having to get sedatives shoved into my bloodstream. Fun. 

Not. 

On the upside of things, Carnation arrived with my boxes of books and toy horse collection. I think I actually love my cat even more than before: his brain doesn't try and invade mine. Dr. Grey says it's okay for me to keep him here as long as he's house-trained, neutered, and stays in my room when I'm not with him. He's already the first two, but the third shouldn't be too hard as long as whoever my roommates are don't let him get out. I think they're gonna be back from visiting their parents in a week or so; this school just let out for the summer. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

Author's Notes: Well, that was the first chapter. So, what do you think? 


	2. Chapter 2

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not own in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc.. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. 

Chapter 2

July 1st, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

My first thought when I finally got a look at the school from the outside was "Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig..." The second thought was "How expensive is this and how are my parents going to be expected to pay!" I must have said at least the second thought out loud or something, because Dr. Grey responded by saying something about the school having some rich backers and that "the Professor" inherited both the mansion the school is in and a lot of money from his parents. Also, that they had several students here for free because they'd been orphaned or ran away when somebody overreacted to their being mutants. I pointed out that I was neither, and that I simply was from a family with--in my opinion--too many kids and not enough money. She didn't seem to want to talk about it anymore; that, or she knew nothing about the school's tuition plans. 

Frankly, I'm worried by either of those ideas. On one hand, I don't want to be a charity case, even one of many. On the other hand, I don't want my parents to end up destitute because my mind has urges to reach out and touch someone. 

Anyway, financial questions aside, the school is very lovely. There's a good-sized river nearby, with some sandstone bluffs looking out over it that make up part of the school's property. It probably looks amazing at sunset, though it could just be city-girl me being dazzled by nature or something. There're lots of trees, too: maple, oak, pine, birch, and I think I spotted some that could be chestnuts. Woods basically surround the entire compound, except for the front gate and the river bluffs. There probably aren't any walls by the bluffs because it's too sheer to climb or something. I think Grandma would love it here, and Dr. Grey said something about there being stables on the property. It wouldn't be spending time with Starshine, but at least I won't get out of practice like I would if I were home. Gas is pretty expensive, so actually using the van at all, much less the long trip to see Grandma, is a rare thing reserved for Christmas, Easter, birthdays--good thing Mom and Dad's are so close together, and the Dweebs are the same day--and, you know, rampaging psychos in the City. 

God, I miss my parents. I haven't been away from them for so long since I quit Girl Scouts four years ago. 

Anyway, it seems that, rather than getting two and a half months or something off for summer, like I should, I'm starting my junior year on Tuesday the 5th. It's just my luck that I have a mental breakdown just before finals of my sophomore year and get shuffled off to an all-  
mutant school that's on a Year Round schedule. Crap. I'm just glad that my grades last "year" were good enough that I didn't really need to take the finals, otherwise who knows what I'd have to do. 

All right, here's how the school year works at Xavier's: two and a half months in school, followed by two weeks off. That's an extra month in school each year compared to conventional-scheduling schools, but more frequent vacations and we're guaranteed to be out of school for Christmas. I suppose it's pretty good because they don't have to keep us extra days into our vacations to make up for snow days. 

Anyway, I've got to go: Dr. Grey wants to check how I'm coming on learning how to shield my mind, and then bedtime. I think my roommates--I'm in a triple-bed room--are supposed to be here either tomorrow or Sunday. 

Oh, and Carnation is being a silly kitty, chasing a bit of loose string that I unraveled from the bottoms of my pjs. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

July 2nd, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

I got my schedule for the semester--something I forgot to mention yesterday is that Xavier's is on Semesters, like my old school, only we have midterms right before our "Mid-term Breaks", as it were, and Finals before our Semester Breaks--and things look pretty good. I've got almost everything I'd signed up for at my old school, though I'm rather annoyed at the lack of some options. Xavier's is woefully lacking in the arts, quite frankly. Maybe that's how Xavier keeps the costs down, but I think I'm gonna go bonkers. 

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, my schedule. I've got AP Chemistry-  
woo-hoo!--first thing in the morning with a Dr. McCoy. I think I used an article by him as a source for a paper I wrote last semester in Biology; it was for our unit on genetics. In other words, Science Class this year should be interesting and informative. Then I've got Spanish 3, PE (Horseback riding! YES! So glad I put off finishing my PE requirement last year), English 3, Algebra 2, and U.S. History. 

I predict much suffering on the part of my person due to a lack of the arts...

Oh, I met one of my roommates today! Her name's Kitty Pryde. Our meeting went along something like this: I was doing some last bits of unpacking clothes and Carnation was "supervising"...

Kitty: Hi! You must be the new girl! 

Me: Umm, yeah, hi. Meg. Is me. And boy, this isn't awkward at all...

Kitty: (laughed) No, it's okay. I think I was worse when I first came here, and that was a while ago. Cute cat. 

Me: Yeah, he's my widdle baby-kins; his name's Carnation, just so you know what to yell if he decides your bedspread or something looks better than his scratching post. 

Kitty: Carnation? Weird name for a cat. 

Me: Well, my birthday's two days after Valentine's Day, and I got him when I was twelve, and my dad had gotten my mom a bouquet of carnations for the holiday. Captain Fuzzball here kept dive-bombing the flowers until I took it as a sign and renamed him Carnation. Just as well, I suppose; he wasn't answering to Bilbo. 

Kitty: Like "The Hobbit?" 

Me: Yup. Need any help with your stuff? 

Kitty: No, I'm fine. Come on, Lockheed. 

Now, I swear, my soul to God, that a little pinkish/purplish dragon followed her into the room. My life is officially weirder than I thought possible. To make things even more surreal, Lockheed the dragon and Carnation have now seemed to have settled into a semi-covert war over who gets to rule the room. So far there have only been staring contests, but I suspect there might be actual skirmishes in the long run. 

Kitty found it all oddly amusing. I don't know what to think, other than I'd better not find my cat gutted or something equally violent some day when I get back from classes. 

There was, I admit, some potential for melodrama as Kitty and I were getting ready for bed, but things turned out fine. It started when I spotted the Star of David she wore...

Me: So you're Jewish? 

Kitty: (defensively) Yes. Why, is that a problem? 

Me: No! Nonononono! I was just curious, is all. 

Kitty: (mollified) Okay, then. 

Me: I mean, I'd be Jewish too if my mom hadn't become a Catholic before she met and married my dad! 

Kitty: So you're, what, half-Jewish? 

Me: More like half-Jewish as a nationality or something. Or would that be half-Hebrew? 

Kitty: I dunno. 

So, with that over and done with, we both settled down with our respective critters curled up on favored annoying pieces of anatomy, and I started this entry. Which is over now. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

July 3rd, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Well, church was an interesting experience this week. I was the only student from the school to go to the local parish church--apparently, if there're other Catholics at the school, they don't make it a habit to attend Mass regularly--though one of the teachers went, and Mr. Summers--that's Dr. Grey's husband--drove us. 

How to describe Mr. Wagner? To be honest, I reflexively grabbed my crucifix and had a mini-spaz-out because he, quite frankly, looks like a demon. He's got yellow eyes, two toes on each foot, three fingers on each hand, a long, pointy-tipped tail, elf ears, and blue fur over every bit of his body I could see, which admittedly wasn't much because he was wearing a long summer-weight coat to cover up with. 

It was when Mr. Wagner just sort of drooped at my gut-reaction, followed by Mr. Summers giving me a pointed look--which came across despite those weird red sunglasses--that I came to the conclusion Mr. Wagner probably wasn't a demon. I tried making up for it while we were in the car by mentioning my "exorcism" experience, which seemed to relax the men-folk. Mr. Wagner offered some of his own stories about his experiences with the Church, and I told stories about the crazy nuns that ran the school I went to from Kindergarten through Middle School. 

Good times. 

The church choir is pretty good, but it's mostly old people--like, between the ages of my two grandmothers--60s to 80s or something. Fortunately there are a few other teenagers and younger grown-ups, so it wasn't too awkward to ask the director--her name is Sister Justine--about entrance auditions. They turned out to not be that big a deal--just singing some scales and some questions about my singing experience and range--and she told me that they practice every Wednesday and Friday after evening Mass. I told her I'd love to participate, and I'd get back to her on that once I found out if I could get a regular ride to rehearsals. 

I asked Mr. Summers; he said it was okay, and the school had an extra car or two you can sign out to use. Thank goodness I actually bothered to take Driver's Ed Freshman Year, huh? I suppose this also means that technically I could go and visit my parents on weekends and go to church there, but I don't like the idea of mooching the school's gas and gas money, what with it's unknown source of income and all, and Father Frederick would probably give me those freaky "You're possessed by demons of the Pit! I know it!" looks. 

What else? Oh! Mine and Kitty's other roommate showed up. Apparently she's pretty new too--she transferred in during mid-term break a few months back-  
and her name is Sophia. She's rather pretty; unfortunately for me and Kitty, she knows it. She spent an unseemly long time primping in front of her mirror--which she oh-so-POLITELY "asked" us to move to over her desk for her (biatch!)--and she owns far more makeup then I know what is for what or does what. She also has a pet king snake named Gustave, who unlike his owner is nice and kind of cute, in a mottled pink-and-yellow, red-eyed way. I don't think Sophia really likes Gustave--which is a shame, because I'd like to have him for a pet, and Carnation actually seems to like him--and that if she had a choice, she wouldn't have him. I think the Professor insisted on her having a snake for a pet so she could work on her powers, which apparently are the ability to talk to snakes, like Harry Potter and Voldemort. Supposedly she can also talk to pretty much any sort of reptile, only to a lesser extent than with snakes, but Sophia just doesn't seem to appreciate it. 

She could probably get a great job working in a zoo reptile house as their specialized vet or something, but I think she'd have to get over her hang-ups on things that aren't "glamorous." Kitty and I are pretty much in agreement that Sophia is stuck-up and weird, though come to think of it these are two girls who consist of one telepath with a cat named Carnation, and a girl who walks through walls with a mini-dragon named Lockheed. And I found out about Kitty's power when she walked in from the bathroom straight through the closed door while I was getting ready for church. 

Why does everybody but me have cool powers? 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

July 4th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Today was pretty uneventful for a Fourth of July, though some Freshmen did get in trouble for setting off the smoke alarm and fire-suppression sprinklers in their room by playing with sparklers inside. Apparently it didn't occur to them that sparkler sparks and rugs are not good. They've got detention for the rest of the week, starting tomorrow, and a bunch of their stuff got soaked and they have to explain to their parents why they need replacements. Oddly enough, I could easily see the Dweebs doing something stupid like that. 

The fireworks that were set off over the campus earlier in the night were really pretty. Kitty and I really enjoyed them, but Sophia kept complaining about the idea of sitting on the grass outside because it would have stained her skirt, and then she was complaining because her insanely high heels kept sinking into the ground. She finally shut up for two seconds when some Senior chucked a folding camp chair at her, but then she started in on how she chipped her nail polish setting the chair up. Kitty suggested we move over a bit and park ourselves on the picnic blanket Miss Munroe, who will be teaching Spanish to both of us, had set up. She's actually very nice, which is a good sign for tomorrow. 

For some reason I didn't see Dr. Grey or some of the other teachers at all today. I'm sure things are fine, though. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

July 5th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Classes went pretty okay today, at least for the first part. Dr. McCoy is really smart and knows his stuff very well; I'm so glad I checked out and studied the Chemistry textbook at my old school last school year, because I probably would have only gotten half of what he discussed in the class overview for the semester otherwise. I think my classmates--there's only six of us--were probably wishing they'd done something like that, because they were all looking rather confused a lot of the time. Or my shielding might have slipped for a bit, I'm not quite sure. That's a problem with my powers: sometimes if I slip a little--just a little, mind you!--I can't really tell because unless a thought is particularly loud, or blatantly not-mine--guy voices, for example. At the time I just made a mental note to talk to Dr. Grey after lunch and before Algebra 2. 

Oh, I almost forgot: Dr. McCoy is big and furry and blue. I don't think it was quite as shocking as it could have been because I'd already met Mr. Wagner. 

Spanish 3 was...interesting. I've always had an easier time with that subject because my teachers in Elementary and Middle school insisted on everybody learning Latin, and all of the church music I've sung over the years means it's rather rare when I get the pronunciation wrong. Unfortunately that doesn't mean much because Miss Munroe has an odd accent that throws off her own pronunciation and confuses the rest of us. And that perception I know isn't the result of a wandering noggin, because Kitty--she sits next to me in that class--kept asking Miss Munroe--though Kitty called her Ororo--to repeat herself, and everybody else in the class acted like that was standard operating procedure. 

After that was horseback riding, which I've looked forward to since I signed up for it, but all we did was go over safety rules and how to groom our horses and saddle them and put the bit to a bridle in. All of that was stuff I'd known for years, and we didn't even get to do any riding! 

It looks like I'm going to have to get over my "stick your thumb in the horse's mouth" hang-up, though. My horse wouldn't cooperate and just accept the bit when it got near the mouth like Starshine does. Gross-a-roo! 

English was English. We're going to read "Huckleberry Finn" first. I'm not so sure about that, personally, as I didn't get very far into "Tom Sawyer" before I got bored when I tried reading it on my own initiative a few years ago. 

Lunch was pretty good. We had chicken patty sandwiches and french fries,  
though the cafeteria people tried to make me take the yucky peas. 

I hate peas. I ended up making myself a salad with lots of croutons. It was pretty good. 

Kitty and I sat with some girl named Marie and her boyfriend Bobby. I don't like Bobby; he's too full of himself. Plus, he kept talking so long that I didn't get a chance to look for Dr. Grey before Math, which was annoying, though it turned out to be a moot point. 

After Math, classes were canceled for the rest of the day. On the one hand, that stank because I love studying history, and on the other hand, it stunk because of why classes were canceled. 

Dr. Grey is dead. She was killed in New York Sunday night and the other teachers that were there didn't get in until lunchtime today, Xavier called me into his office and told me, and that my choices for future training were him or a Miss Frost. I felt really numb and stuff, but I managed to tell him that I'd try with Miss Frost for a bit, and get back to him on the subject. 

Poor Mr. Summers. The funeral is tomorrow, all classes are canceled until next Monday, and as of now Mr. Summers' classes are canceled indefinitely. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go curl up in bed, hug my cat, and cry. A lot. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

Author's Notes: Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa. And it's official, "Kidder"'s sharing a continuity with "Minion." Huzzah! 

-- Rosy the Cat

3/5/06 


	3. Chapter 3

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc.. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of last chapter this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms! 

Chapter 3

July 6th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Went to Dr. Grey's funeral. Some blond woman wearing all white--which really stood out at a funeral, let me tell you--seemed to be really close to Mr. Summers. I asked Kitty about it afterwards, because she was sitting with Miss Munroe and some guy I don't yet know--hey, poet and didn't know it--near the front. Kitty said that the woman was Miss Frost, my new teacher for the whole noggin-shielding thing. I said that was very nice of her to be so supportive of Mr. Summers. Kitty just shook her head and said Miss Frost's intentions were rarely, if ever, trustworthy. I guess I'll have to figure out for myself, then. 

I just miss Dr. Grey. I think I accidentally picked up Sophia's dreams last night, and I know Dr. Grey wouldn't have minded if I came to her in the middle of the night for help. Plus, she was a really nice lady. I wish I'd had black clothes to wear to the funeral, but the last time I had a funeral to go to, it was Opa Goldberg's in Connecticut, and that was back in fifth grade, before the Dweebs were born. 

I ended up making do with my navy-blue winter church dress, even though it was too warm for that. It didn't take a mind-reader to tell Sophia thought I was the height of unfashionable, but I really didn't care that much. Showing respect to Dr. Grey's memory was far too important. 

I called Sister Justine and told her about the situation, and she agreed that I'd be better off not coming to choir practice tonight. I'm determined to go on Friday, though. 

I'm going back to bed and hugging my cat, though I think I've run out of tears. 

No wait, there's one. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 7th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Xavier insisted I get up today and have a session with Miss Frost because, according to him, I'm letting in too many people's thoughts and am all the more depressed for it. I snarked back that I was already depressed at losing my favorite teacher, so how could he tell? He just gave me this look that I think was supposed to be "knowing," but came off as constipated. Then he just looked annoyed, which made me certain he was reading my mind without permission, to which I told him to stop being a hypocritical jerk. 

I think the angst of this place is getting to me. I will resist. I will not become some soulless soap opera reject. I will succeed in my academic endeavors, earn a fabulously-large scholarship, attend Harvard--or some other excellent institution of higher learning--go to med school, earn my doctorate, become fabulously successful, raspberry Omi Goldberg and my uncles, and never ever again be in need of a handout from anyone. And then I'll meet Mr. Right and get married and have kids, and live 'till I'm 150. And somewhere in there I'll earn the Nobel Peace Prize or something. 

Hey, a girl's gotta dream, right? 

Anyway, Miss Frost. Something about her just rubs me wrong, and I don't like her poking at my shields. I think I'll end up with superb shields just in a genuine desire to keep her out. I also noticed she smelled oddly like Mr. Summers' cologne--and before anybody accuses me of being too close to Mr. Summers, remember I was in a small car with just him and Mr. Wagner, who smells faintly of sulfur. 

What is going on here at this school!

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 8th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Today was awful. Carnation and Lockheed must have gotten into a fight, because I found Carnation doubled-over on Sophia's bed with a bruised tummy, barfing all over the place. My poor baby! I'd kick Lockheed, but that would just make Kitty mad, and I don't want my only friend mad at me. Sophia came in then and had a spaz attack over her bedspread. Honestly, there are more important things than some stupid, fluffy, lacy, overblown quilt! My cat is hurt and sick, and besides cat barf comes out in the wash, if you use the right pre-treater. It's not my fault, or Carnation's, that Sophia was impractical and brought a dry-clean-only bedspread to a school, of all places. 

That girl needs to straighten out her priorities. 

Choir practice went well, though I won't be able to sing with the group at Sunday morning Mass for a few more weeks because I need to finish learning some of the songs that they sing on rotation. 

Miss Frost insisted that I come in for another session after choir practice. I'm pretty sure she's not supposed to riffle through my memories like that, but I actually managed to throw her out, which was a first for me. She seemed shocked, which turned into anger when I stuck out my tongue and scampered out of there. 

Hah! I suppose my day ended on a high note. Now I need to get some milk for Carnation, because I heard him throwing up in his litter box a few times during the day already and I think only milk will be gentle enough for his stomach at this point. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 9th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

As it was Saturday, and Miss Frost seems to be avoiding me--yay!--Kitty and I signed out one of the school cars and went into town, Carnation sitting in my lap within his carrier while Kitty drove. I went to the local vet to get Carnation checked out while Kitty went into a book store. I'll have to ask her how the selection there is, once Carnation's all better. Particularly since she seems determined to make up for Lockheed being a jerk, and came back with a gift card for the store for me and a "get well soon" card for Carnation. 

What a nice friend! 

We spent the rest of the day hanging out in the school's game room with Marie and Bobby, though I stuck to reading a library book on a sofa. I just wish Bobby hadn't tried to be "funny" and take my glasses; I don't actually need them for reading, but I do need them to see distances, so I couldn't grab them back from him. Kitty must have finally realized the problem, because she got them back from Bobby and returned them to me. 

I hate having to rely on something other than myself to see, particularly something that's so easy to lose or have taken away, but I just can't afford contact lenses, and I hear those are awfully uncomfortable anyway. Maybe when I'm older and I'm a doctor who can pay her own way, I can get laser eye surgery or something. I'm sick of being seen as an easy target. Plus, I'd be able to work faster and more efficiently if I didn't have to worry about glasses getting broken or smudged or in the way. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 10th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

I drove the car to church this week. On the drive over I asked Mr. Wagner--who has asked me to start calling him Kurt, which is fine with me as long as he's not one of my teachers--what he'd wanted to do when he grew up, back when he was my age. He said he'd wanted to be a priest, which I can totally see. He has a very kind and caring personality that would suit the priesthood. Then he said, just as we were pulling into the church parking lot, that he'd been a priest for a while, a few years back, but it turned out that the person who ordained him was not themselves a member of the clergy, so he'd stopped acting as a priest. 

I freely admit that I spent a good deal of Mass contemplating Kurt's problem. After all, it's important to follow the calling God gives you. I'm following my calling by studying hard so I can become a doctor. If Kurt feels called to serve through the priesthood, he really shouldn't give that up just because of one man's dishonesty. After all, I'm sure that Kurt did whatever he did as a priest to the best of his understanding of the Divine Plan, helping others and serving as a counselor and the like. 

After the service but before either of us went to confession, I stopped him for a bit and asked this: 

"So why don't you enroll in a seminary school and become a priest for real if that's what you really want to do?" I asked Kurt. 

"Vhat about the innocent people I could save as a super hero?"

"Dude, costume-wearing nut jobs are a dime a dozen. What's far rarer is a compassionate priest or someone who is willing to live by example, and say 'See, you can have weird powers and even look different, but you can still live your own life doing what you love to do.' That's a heck of a lot more valuable than running around in spandex while either directly or indirectly causing property damage." 

...Kurt then just blinked as I gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze and scootched out of the church pew. I hope he takes some serious time to think about what I said, because the Church would definitely benefit to have a person as nice as him among their numbers. 

On a lighter note, Carnation is doing much better, and I'm so glad I got what little homework I had done on Friday before the barf-on-the-bed incident. I didn't have time or space before then, and I really needed to relax after that. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 11th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Back to classes. We actually got some riding done in PE, which was good; I've been divided off into the group of advanced students, namely anybody who already knew how to ride and take care of a horse. It also allows me to go riding anytime there aren't any classes in session, so I can go riding in the afternoons or evenings if I want. 

Horror of horrors: it turns out that Miss Frost is my history teacher. I wish I had almost anybody else teaching that subject at the moment, because she blatantly uses her powers to make sure we're all paying attention and I have yet to repeat my mental chucking her out of my mind bit. I don't quite remember how I did it before, really, but I wish I did. 

I wish there was another trained telepath at the school who isn't either Xavier or Miss Frost. I wish Dr. Grey were alive. I wish I'd never gotten my powers...

No, I don't. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have met Kitty or Marie or Kurt. I like having friends; I never really had any before because I was too shy, and everybody at my old school assumed I was a nerd or stuck up or something because I always focused on studying and not attracting attention. Getting beat up by Samantha Boyer when I refused to do her homework when she offered that as payment for being my friend taught me not to be the first one to offer friendship, or at the very least stake out the situation for a while before opening up. 

What I really wish is that, if Dr. Grey had to die, and I had to come here, I could have had powers that didn't require a telepath to learn control from. Then I could avoid Miss Frost. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 12th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Xavier called me into his office today after classes. At first, I figured he was going to have me finally give him my opinion on my training under Miss Frost--namely that it SUCKS--but it turned out to be something completely different. The Nosy Nancy herself was there, for starters...

I carefully stuck my head in the doorway after Xavier's voice called me to come in. As soon as I spotted Miss Frost I had to mentally scramble to reinforce my shields, because I felt a bubble of fear rising within me. For one thing, I seem to lose my control when I'm scared, and secondly I didn't want her to know I was scared. 

"I can come back later if you're busy now, sir," I said, hoping beyond hope he'd let me. 

"Don't be silly, Margaret; I asked Emma to be here for our meeting. Please, have a seat." 

I edged carefully around the door and tentatively made my way in, pointedly sitting in the chair furthest from Miss Frost. Not that it would really matter if she wanted to attack me, plus she was between me and the door, but it really was the only thing I could do to make myself at least feel safer. I sat carefully in the leather-bound chair in front of Xavier's desk, gingerly setting down my more-than-five-year-old backpack that had seen me through school since sixth grade. 

"What is this about, then, if it isn't about what we discussed last week?" 

Xavier steepled his fingers in front of himself, elbows planted on the surface of his desk. His eyes seemed to be trying to burrow through my forehead, or something, and his mental fingers were undeniably making tentative pokes at my shields. I narrowed my eyes in annoyance, feeling a small surge of...something. He stopped poking. 

"Margaret, I've called you in here today to discuss your future at this school." 

That surprised me. I blinked a few times and said, "Umm, work my buns off in class, apply to colleges, hopefully earn some scholarships and graduate?" From the look on Xavier's face, that wasn't what he meant. 

"I mean what do you want to do with your powers." 

'Oh!' I thought, 'That's easy!' "Well, I've always wanted to be a doctor. My mom wanted to go to medical school when she was younger, but she got pregnant with me and married my father, so they couldn't afford for her to go to school full-time. A few years ago she finally managed to become a Registered Nurse, and that's brought in a little more money for the family, but it's still not enough because they had the triplets a few years before that, and three boys can't exactly wear hand-me downs from one older sister. I like kids, and I've baby-sat for extra money lots of times, so I was thinking I could be a pediatrician, with an eye towards building my own practice and branching out into family medicine. My powers would be really useful for working with really little kids who can't talk yet, or can't speak clearly yet; I could find out exactly where something hurts on a kid without having to poke and test for sore spots or anything, I'd just get their parents' permission to make a sort of surface scan of the child's thoughts to pick up where it hurts...And why are you shaking your head like that?" 

Xavier sighed and shared a commiserating look with Miss Frost. Returning his focus to her, he said, "Well, you see Margaret, nearly all of the student's here at Xaver's field-test their powers by working with the New Mutants team. If you excel there, you will eventually be moved up to the elite team, the X-men. It's a very great honor; you might not be aware of this, but Jean was one of the founding members of the X-men." 

My first thought, quite frankly, was 'Dr. Grey ran around in spandex and contributed to massive property damage? That doesn't sound like the actions of a doctor!' I mentally regrouped. 

"Why?" 

Xavier blinked, and Miss Frost raised an eyebrow. Snooty cow. 

"Why what?" 

"Well," I said, hesitating at the idea of contradicting the school principal. This was hardly calling the teacher of a single class on a minor mistake, after all. At the condescending look Miss Frost sent my way, however, I firmed my resolve and refused to look back. 

"Why should I want to be on any team, whatever level? What ultimate purpose would that serve?" 

"Well, members of the team would show the world that mutants are capable of being useful, and are worthy of acceptance: stopping super villains from endangering civilians, saving the world, and keeping other mutants from misusing their powers or hurting humans." 

Now, that was just wrong, in my experience. I'd seen the sites to super-battles before--I'd been born and raised in New York City, after all--and had my parents pick me up in the middle of a school day to evacuate within half an hour's notice of some big battle nearby. I remembered my father complaining about losing hours of paid work because he couldn't get to the office for one reason or another, which resulted in the entire family having to suck it up and eat less, wear clothes for longer, break out sewing kits and rag-boxes for repairs of old, worn clothing that sometimes was just on the verge of being outgrown. My going through puberty, on top of the Dweebs' infantile growth-spurts, had been hell on the family's savings. Several times I'd bought clothes several sizes too big, just so I could grow into them and wear them longer, saving money while subjecting myself to social ridicule. The survival of the family as a whole was far more valuable than a bit more social acceptance. 

"If you're trying to improve human/mutant relations, then why are classes in fighting offered? Why not classes in philosophy, diplomacy, comparative religions, psychology, debate? Why doesn't the school have a Model United Nations club? Why doesn't the school have guidance counselors, ones with training in anger management and degrees in psychology? Furthermore, shouldn't there be a career and college center on campus to help students find colleges, trade schools, and/or jobs? Even my old school, which was certainly no prize, had all of those things." 

Xavier opened his mouth to rebut, but I was on a roll. 

"You said nearly all of the students end up on the teams. What happens to those that don't?" He looked a touch sheepish. Ah. Defectors to some opposing side, I'll bet. "Mm-hmm. Is there anyone who has actually graduated from this school?" 

Xavier had a slight look of triumph to his eyes as he said, in a tone of voice that said 'you're so silly,' "Of course people graduate from the school. Jean, Scott, and Hank McCoy, to name a few you would know, have all graduated." 

"But all of those people ended up back here," I pointed out. "What about the other graduates? What are they doing? What are they contributing to the general work force?" 

"They are teachers here, at the school. They are giving back to that which has offered them so much." 

"In other words, this is their side job, because they're still out 'fighting crime'? But the teaching staff can't be each and every graduate you've ever had, otherwise they'd outnumber the current students! Which means that the mortality rate among graduates must be disturbingly high." 

Xavier's face was starting to resemble a storm cloud, and Miss Frost was looking like she wanted to rip me a new one. Well, tough, I still had things to say! 

"There's also something that's been bothering me since day one, and Dr. Grey never really answered me: how exactly is this school funded? How do you pay the teachers' salaries? How can you afford to take on so many students for free? How much are you charging my parents? Does the school get any federal or state funding, or is this considered a private school? If so, who are you getting donations from? Where-?" 

MARGARET! THAT IS ENOUGH! 

I actually screamed at that, it hurt so bad. His mental shout was more than enough to shatter my shields utterly, leaving my mind open to the thoughts of the entire school. By the time I rebuilt my shields from the ground up, I was curled up in a fetal position on the floor, the shoulder straps to my back pack wrapped circulation-cuttingly tight around my fingers in a futile attempt to distract myself from the pain. My entire body was wracked with sobs. As I looked up into his still-furious face, I just knew I was in for a massive chewing out, and for no real reason other than I'd pointed out flaws in his supposedly-flawless system. 

I was scared. I was indignant. I was Infuriated. 

Before he could say anything, I managed to bite out, "Miss Frost has been rifling through my thoughts, and those of others, during class without permission." 

His anger did not abate. 

"I will speak with Emma on that later, Margaret. As for you, if you cannot control yourself in the presence of teachers, I'm going to have to restrict you from leaving the campus for any reason other than class trips and family emergencies." 

My eyes widened, hurt, even as I struggled to my feet. "But I have church on Sundays! And choir rehearsals after evening Mass on Wednesdays and Fridays!" 

"Then you will just have to learn control, now won't you?" snarked Miss Frost from her seat in the corner. I might well have launched myself at her and used my bite-ragged fingernails to try and claw her smug face off, if things weren't interrupted. 

"CHARLES!" 

Some old guy that I belatedly recognized as Magneto from various news reports over the years came charging into the office. I was near-giddy to note that the door almost smacked Miss Frost in the face, if she hadn't moved her head out of the way. 

Pooh. 

"Erik, I'm in a meeting at the moment-" 

"Damn Doom and his misbegotten tart of a wife!"

"Excuse me?" 

"I had her at my mercy, Charles: someone foretold to bring about the end of the world as we know it, and she slipped my grasp! And Doom! He's refusing to follow the rules of things! Do you know what he did? Do you!" 

"Erik, perhaps if you could wait just a moment so I-" 

"He proverbially tied my hands, Charles! There were no threats, no posturing, no boasting; he just up and bought all of Genosha's national debts and refused to let me apply for more funding if I hurt one hair on her head! I don't know what the man's thinking..."

"What?" 

"You heard me! And then, to add insult to injury- Who are you?" 

That last bit was said to me. 

"Umm...Meg Kidder, newbie telepath and student?" 

Magneto gave me an oddly calculating look. I'm pretty sure I didn't like it. 

Neither did Xavier, apparently. "Margaret, you can leave now; I'll speak to you later." 

I managed to scoop my back pack up from it's place on the ground, expertly swinging it around to my back and slipping my arms through the loops. However, on my way out I couldn't help but send back one last zinger before bolting out and down the hall: "So, the both of you have an odd tendency to get indignant and mad when someone doesn't follow the rules you've set up for yourselves; what exactly is supposed to be the difference between you again?" 

...Okay, so I might very well end up regretting that last bit by my next meeting with Xavier, but I think it was worth it to see them looking confused and utterly...I don't know what that was, but it was funny as all get-out! 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

Author's Notes: Well, this was a nice, long one. What does everybody think? 

Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa. 

-- Rosy the Cat

3-9-06 


	4. Chapter 4

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc.. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of last chapter this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms! 

Chapter 4

July 15th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

A lot has happened in the world since the last time I wrote. For starters, Doctor Doom of Latveria's getting married in less than a week--that's part of what Magneto was talking about when he barged in on Xavier's "talk" with me. I personally don't see why so many people here at the school--including Kitty--are so shocked by this. Aren't monarchs supposed to get married? And besides, it's not like she's being forced to marry him, though the clip of her at the announcement a few days back made her look kind of bemused and overwhelmed. I suppose anybody would be thrown for a loop a bit if they were proposed to by a world leader, really. Ms. Florescu seems like a really smart woman; Xavier showed a clip from a Sixty Minutes interview she did a while back when people started asking just who she was and all. 

There have been rumors floating around the school that Mr. Summers and Miss Frost are dating--or worse. I don't know what to do, really. On the one hand, Miss Frost could be making Mr. Summers be with her and thus is a victim, but on the other hand he could be doing that willingly, which is a betrayal of Dr. Grey. Anybody who saw Dr. Grey and Mr. Summers together--even me, and I didn't even know them as a couple for very long--could tell that they were absolutely gaga about each other. I don't think Miss Frost is controlling Mr. Summers, because surely Xavier wouldn't let her do something like that; not in his own school. As such, he's cheating on his barely-in-the-grave wife, and she's a skanky hoochie-mama. 

May the glaring commence. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 16th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

I spent a good chunk of the morning talking to Mom on the phone. My parents can only afford to call me once every two weeks, so we had a lot to catch up on. We talked about lots of things, but the main issue is that I'm going to have to pay for Carnation's Vet bills out of my allowance, which stinks. I wish Daddy's job's insurance covered medical bills for pets, and for what the Vet's work is going to cost me, Lockheed had better keep away from me or declare a truce with Carnation, because going without book money for more than three months will have me cranky beyond belief. 

Anyway, Mom found the story Marie told me about Magneto's latest fight--apparently she overheard the rest of Magneto's rant with Xavier after I left, or somebody else did and told her--with Doctor Doom weird. I don't know why, personally; the soon-to-be Mrs. Doom sounds wicked smart and resourceful. And, best of all, she doesn't wander around covered in spandex--sorry, "unstable molecules"--like so many people I seem to be around of late. I've seen the economic statistics on Latveria--one thing Xavier's is good for is 24-hour internet access, which my parents can't afford and I only got during school hours at my old school--and they're doing quite well. Genosha will be far better off economically if they let Latveria help them out, though they'd be a heck of a lot better off politically if President--or whatever his political title is--Lensherr aka Magneto would shut up about mutant superiority. It makes him sound like a Nazi. Besides, I know having to hear other people's thoughts every time I put my shields down doesn't make me feel superior. More like I'm being invaded. The man has no idea what he's talking about, honestly. 

And Xavier really shoul

I blinked. What had happened? One second I was writing in my diary, the next there was a weird flash of light and now...I'm sitting on my butt in the middle of my dorm room. That wasn't so different...

"Gah! CARNATION! THERE'S A RAT!" I screeched in fright as I tush-scooted back along the carpet. Dirty carpet. Dirty carpet that was leaving trails of filth and cobwebs on my jeans. Eww. I leapt to my feet, jumping around and alternating between kicking in the rat's general direction and thwacking my hands across my behind to knock free the dirt and debris. Once the rat scurried off to wherever he was going that wasn't my room, I paused my pants-smacking and got a good look at the rest of the room. The steel bed frames were almost falling apart and the springs that normally supported the mattresses were rusty. Another thing: the mattresses were all long gone, as well as any sign the room had ever been inhabited by three teenaged girls and their eclectic band of pets. 

I was officially wigged. Fortunately for me, I managed to squish my panic back down as far as it could go, reached for calmness, and carefully lowered my shields. 

Nothing. 

I then tried actually reaching out, which I'd only ever really done at the request of a teacher while working on my control. 

'Xavier? Sir, if you can hear me, please answer because you know I have to be desperate to be trying for you! Miss Frost?' 

Nothing. 

'...Buehler...Buehler...? Crap.' 

I had no idea what had happened, what was going on, or what I should do. This was completely beyond my knowledge or experience: there was no text book to study, no pattern to follow, no adult for guidance. It was just me and my disgustingly-distended room. I couldn't even see my diary, which I had just been writing in. All I had on me was a cheap sports watch around my left wrist, my baptismal cross hanging from my neck, my glasses, and well-worn--ah yes, and dirty--jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers. 

Oh, and my crappy telepathy. Can't forget that, as it's so darn useful. Sarcastic, moi? Perish the thought. 

I had to force the door open, the latch had rusted that bad. Once out in the hall, the neglect the school was under was...disturbing. Every surface was covered in dust, except where you saw occasional old and new animal tracks, with a few scattered piles of droppings here and there. I hurried toward the center hall on the first glimpse of a mouse skull in what I presume were owl feces. 

"Eww!" couldn't even begin to vocalize the disgust I felt. Sure, I'd grown up poor and in a mouse-and-roach-infested environment--namely relatively cheap apartment housing in New York City--but, well, to be quite frank, that was how we and several of our neighbors could afford to keep a cat without spending too much on cat food. My moving to the school had put a disturbing increase on my pet expenses, as Carnation was both an excellent mouser/ratter, and a large fifteen-pound cat used to an all-meat diet. 

Not to mention that my mother was incredibly dedicated to keeping our home as clean as possible. At the time I assumed she was a neat-freak; now I wasn't nearly so sure. 

I wanted to be home; I wanted my parents and even my three annoying little brothers. At this point, if Omi or my uncles showed up, I'd cling to them and not let go until we were out of this place. And considering how much I'm annoyed with the Goldberg side of the family, that's saying a lot. Yes, I loved them--they're family, of course I loved them!--but you can love a person with all your heart, in my experience, and still heartily dislike them, even hate them. I loved Omi: Chanukah and Passover were some of my favorite days of the year when I was little. Candles being lit, and good food, and exploring Omi and Opa's massive house in Connecticut. It wasn't until Opa died and Omi moved to Fort Lauderdale that I realized just how...cruel...my mother's family was. Yes, we were welcome for the major holidays, but I think that was mainly the family's way of rubbing in all of what Mom had lost when she became Catholic, and later when she married Daddy and I was born. To Omi, I'm not her only granddaughter: I'm the ultimate symbol of her "failure" as a mother. The Dweebs don't register nearly as much on that scale as me, because they're just more grandsons, and she has oh...cousin Micah and cousin Leo make five...nine other grandsons. Yes, the Goldberg men are just as fertile as the Goldberg woman. No, they aren't picked on for it; they're all but praised in song every time one of my aunts pops out another whiney cousin, but Mom's dismissed as a failure and her children are used as tools to point out all that she lacks when we are given holiday and birthday gifts. 

Bitter, me? No, I just hate the hypocritical shmendricks. Uncle David--Mom's middle brother--knocked up his girlfriend in college, but they were both welcomed by the family with open arms, because she was a "good" Jewish girl from a "good" family. And Omi spends a disturbing amount of time bewailing her time in Auschwitz, and the cruelties of the Nazis. Yeah, well, the history books agree with you, Omi, but could you stop using that as an excuse for, oh say, EVERYTHING? 

In the time it took for me to think all of that, I'd made it to the main entrance hall. The chandelier was swamped with cobwebs. When I finally managed to shift the door bolts and shove it open, I was giddy at the first wafts of fresh air, and the warm sunshine didn't hurt either. 

The front courtyard and driveway also showed signs of neglect, but they weren't nearly as bad as the inside of the school. I attributed that to nature's tendency to clean up after itself with rain and a proper food web and nitrogen cycle. 

I made straight for the garage, but there weren't any cars. The best I could manage was a--notice a theme?--slightly-rusty bike, with both a front basket and saddle bag-style baskets in back. I say slightly-rusty because really only the metal of the tire rims and spokes were affected; everything else was either stainless steel or had been well-oiled some time before being abandoned. After utilizing a overly-dusty bike pump, I made my careful way into town. 

Things there, while not as bad as the school, were pretty bad in comparison to what I saw on my prior visit last night, when I went to Friday night choir rehearsals. Or, I think it was last night. Whatever happened, I don't know, but I need to find out. 

My first stop was the public library, where fortunately my recently-acquired card still worked. That made me feel a lot better. 

What I found out while making internet searches for news information made me feel...disturbed. Mutants were the majority group, because most of the humans--really, that's an odd distinction; aren't we human too?--non-empowered types were dead. Magneto of all people ruled the world. I looked up my parents and brothers. They're dead. I had to turn away from the computer screen and curl up in a ball on my chair, so I never got around to checking for Grandma Kidder or Omi or the rest of my family. 

I wanted my mom so bad, for her to hug me and tell me that everything would be all right, and we'd curl up on the sofa watching her old "Princess Bride" video on the battered T.V., drinking instant hot cocoa, the kind that had the little bitty marshmallows already in the packet. But that would never happen again, because Magneto didn't think my mommy and daddy and brothers didn't MATTER as much as mutants. Weren't his parents normal? Didn't he love them? Didn't he cry when he found out his entire world had changed, and there was no going back? So why the HELL did he think he had the right to take away MY family! ANYBODY'S family! 

Apparently my crying had attracted some serious attention from the people around me. The librarian had tried to get my attention so she could tell me to quiet down, but as I got more and more upset, my powers went wonky. People started backing away, pointing and staring and getting scared or angry and...I couldn't take it. I bolted out of the library, barely managing to pull myself completely onto "my" bike, and rode out of town as fast as I could. I had to get away, find some place as far from people as I could get, where they'd be safe from my powers and I could work to make my shields stronger, better, than I'd ever had them. Maybe if I shielded myself well enough, I could stop and properly mourn for my family. Until then, however, I'd have to push it away and gain control of my self, because I clearly had no control over the world around me, and this was the best I could do. 

Author's notes: And thus we enter the House of M arc. Good? Bad? Depressingly sad? 

Oh, and in case any of my relatives find their way to my writing: any and all similarity between my Uncle David and Meg's Uncle David is superficial and completely unintentional. I didn't even notice I'd used his name until I was formatting the text files for uploading. 

Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa. 

-- Rosy the Cat

3-18-06 


	5. Chapter 5

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc.. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of last chapter this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms! 

Chapter 5

I ended up pulling off of the road about a mile outside of town and walking the bike off-road a ways into the woods, barely managing to get the kickstand down and the vehicle balanced before I collapsed to the ground. I admit I submitted to human impulses and did my best to cry myself out, since any slips with my shielding wouldn't hurt much of anyone at this point and place. 

Now I can freely admit that, looking back on things, I made some bad mistakes regarding my telepathy. I treated it like I would horseback riding, or singing. Riding came naturally to me; Grandma Kidder always said that I moved like a person "born on a horse's back," and varying forms to that theme. It's one of my things, and until I came to Xavier's I never had an opportunity to ride on a consistent basis. That wasn't my fault; I was a victim of circumstance on that part. Singing is also something I've loved from a very young age; it was a way I felt I could connect with God and the world around it, something incredibly personal that could nonetheless happen in the biggest and densely-packed crowds. Something that I also brought a certain level of innate talent, but it's taken years of choir--both church and school--to get me as far as I've gotten. More than one director, however, has commented that I'd be a lot farther along if I'd taken the time to practice on my own. 

That was my problem with my telepathy: I haven't put nearly enough effort into something that is so important to my own mental stability, something that should have taken top priority. I've been mostly running around doing quick patch-jobs when my rudimentary work--which I should be far beyond by now, according to just about everyone I've ever talked to about it, including Dr. Grey before she died--slips or fails or cracks. 

Granted, poor habits aside, Xavier and Miss Frost definitely bear significant fault in my lack of skill. Xavier has taken little to no interest in my personal education regarding my telepathy, and he has failed to follow through on promised assessments of my instructor, Miss Frost. 

I know the Bible says "love one another," "bless those that persecute you," and so on and so forth, but...Let's face it, Emma Frost is a haughty, self-absorbed, image-obsessed, over-controlling BITCH. She's what I have nightmares of Sophia becoming in ten years, quite frankly. Here's hoping that girl gets a reality-check, and/or Gustave the Snake proves to be a calming influence; he seemed like rather sweet guy, for a cold-blooded reptile I can't communicate with. 

Once I'd worked out all of my personal drama as much as could possibly be reasonable at the moment, shoving the admittedly-wrung-out remainders back down within myself, I focused on breathing, calming myself, memories of Dr. Grey's few lessons washing over me as the ragged edges of my psyche were smoothed, properly rewoven rather than patched over. I'd have to deal with all of the gobbledygook that was below the placid surface later, but it would have to be just that: later. Immediate survival was key; as soon as I'd rebuilt my shields and the underlying defenses, I'd start examining the problems they covered and protected from further psychic damage. 

If I ever did get a chance to dig that deep, of course. I'm well-aware of what sort of person Magneto is; I've seen more than enough televised battles and stuff, heard enough mutant-supremacist crap spewed out of his mouth. Whatever happened, however it happened, whoever put these changes into play would probably not hesitate to smack me down at the first sign of a threat. The fact that I've had hardly any training probably would just make me that much easier a target. Thus, my decision that defenses were my top priority. The thing is, to my knowledge Magneto doesn't have any great mental world-changing whoziwhatsis in his personal arsenal. 

Just as I put the finishing touches on my shields, I felt a weak sort of probing. It was rather like someone took a limp noodle--long and thin, incredibly so: Angel hair pasta, perhaps?--and tried to poke my head with it. It was more annoying than anything else, really, and I would have cheerfully ignored it if it weren't for the teensy detail that that thought-noodle felt familiar in a vexing way. 

Yes, I used the word "vexing" in a sentence. It's a weird word, "vexing;" I think people should use it more often--conversations would be more interesting, for one. 

That thought-noodle was still poking. Keeping the defenses I'd managed ready for attack, I dropped the shields. 

'...Margaret...'

Okay, I was having a bit of an "Auntie Em" moment. ...Hey, that was an idea! 

'There's no place like home, there's no place like home...Damnit.' 

'...Margaret?' 

The annoyingly-familiar voice seemed to be a bit confused now. 

'Kidder's Pistachio Palace, which nut would you like to crack!' 

What could I say, I'd had a crappy day and if I didn't force out some levity I might have felt the need to run myself into a tree. 

'Margaret, please be reasonable; this isn't easy at the moment.' 

Ah, how I knew that put-upon tone. 

'Xavier. The entire world seems to have gone bonkers and my family is dead. I think I'm allowed to be less than calm and composed, and you didn't answer when I actually called for help earlier.' 

'Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch, is using her powers to keep me incapacitated, and directing my powers to her own ends. She is the one responsible for what's happened; she's changed the world to give everyone she loves their greatest desire.' 

'Who the HELL would want so many normal people dead and-? ...Oh, right, her disturbingly-Nazi-like speciesist father. I reserve the right to kick him in the shin, though I probably won't stop there. Hypocritical jerk.' 

'Yes, well, while misguided, Erik has on occasion done selfless things, and compassion-'

'What he needs is to sit down and shut up, that's what he needs to do. So why has the "Great and Wise Oz" decided I'm suddenly worth talking too?' 

'...I'm dying, Margaret. The caretakers Wanda has set over me are mental constructs that only seem to do their job when Wanda remembers it needs doing. I'll spare you the details of my condition at the moment, but I need you to come here to Genosha.' 

'Oh yes, I'll just tell Geeves the Imaginary Butler to have my Invisible Jet fueled and be their in a jiffy! Need I remind you that I'm alone and hey, I've only got about twenty bucks on me--it looks like it's been through the wash so it's probably the twenty for school expenses I thought I'd lost--and that's just enough for, like, a train trip and a meal. Do you know how far it is to ride a bike to the nearest train station!'

'Margaret, if you could get to the City, would you be able to access further funds?' 

'...Yes. But I want a full refund when this is over! That money's my personal savings towards college. But I don't see what good it could do; I've never been further away than Connecticut, and I certainly don't have a passport!' 

'Hopefully that won't be an issue. I can sense that Scott and Emma are in Manhattan; you should be able to get help there.' 

I knew this would sound whiney, but...I make no excuses other than it's Emma-Biatch-Frost. 

'Do I have to? Miss Frost fills me with great loathing and an urge to hit something.' 

'Margaret.' 

'Damnit. Fine, I'll go find Mr. Summers and the Wicked Witch who Butts In on People's Brains with No Permission.' 

'...I'll speak with Emma when I get back to the school, Margaret. Thank you.' 

Coming out of my trance completely, I did one last check on my shields and defenses before stifling a cry of pain. My limbs had long-since gone numb, and were suffering from the hours of being stationary. As I slowly worked myself to a standing position, carefully stretching tired muscles, I took note of my surroundings. It was just after lunch when I started writing my journal entry for the day, and judging by the light now it was about five pm. I had two-odd hours of daylight left to make it to the nearest Amtrak station, and from there a half-hour to hour-long trip into the City. 

I hoped that ominous feeling of dread creeping down my spine was in anticipation of the long bike ride ahead and not having to make nice with Emma Frost, however temporarily, but I doubted it. 

Even as I did some last-minute stretches to avoid leg cramps in the middle of whatever sleep I might next have, working my way down the pretty-much empty train car toward where I'd stashed "my bike," I reveled in the sight of the city lights. I was a true child of city and country, and I'd been rather city-deprived for over a month, even though I usually felt rather country-deprived most of the time when I lived back home. 

Home. Was the city truly home, with no Mom and Dad or Triplets waiting for me at the apartment? I suppose I was about to find out. 

Once I got my bike hauled out of the train and out of Penn Station, up the stairs and on the sidewalk, I had to stop and stare a bit. There were hardly any "normal-looking" people walking around, and I suspect those were simply like me--mutants with non-physical mutations--plus the normal ebb and flow of the city was...diminished. Of course, the logical reasoning behind that finally hit me and pointed out that the rest of the city's inhabitants were dead. That thought finally knocked me into some action, throwing my leg over the bike and heading off, stopping briefly at a phone booth to look up Mr. Summers' address. Surprise, surprise, it ended up being listed under the name Frost-comma-Emma. 

Whatever. 

I was so tired and fed-up when I finally got to the Frost-Summers residence that I didn't bother yelling at the servant who answered the door, and then tried to shut it in my face. I told them I was a former student of Miss Frost's, and I needed to speak with her and Mr. Summers on a matter of an emergency. Or something to that effect, I was too tired and annoyed with Miss Frost to fix that particular memory in my mind, I guess. 

Thus when She sauntered into the small sitting room the servant had led me to with a warning not to sit on anything, I was less than inclined to mince words. 

With a haughty sneer creeping up on her lips, my Least Favorite Person In The World At The Moment said, "Who are you and what is your business here?" 

In the back of my mind I noticed two things: the whole way here my shields had been thickening, strengthening as fear of being rejected for whatever reason and my lack of trusting Emma Frost escalated. The only reason I was here now was because I couldn't live with myself if anyone--even Xavier--were to die and I could have done something to prevent it, even though I couldn't trust Her further than Grandma Kidder could throw her. The second thing I'd noticed, however, were Her powers scrabbling at my shields, trying to barge their way in. My eyes narrowed. 

Never Again. 

"My name is Margaret Kidder, and I'm here because Charles Xavier is dying and needs your help." 

"I don't know anyone by that name; go away." My, she sounded pissy. 

"What name, Emma?" Mr. Summers walked into the room! Huzzah! 

"Oh, no one of consequence, Dear..." 

"Charles Xavier," I piped up. "He taught you along with several others--including your wife--how to use your powers. World's most powerful telepath? Ringing any bells?" 

Mr. Summers smiled apologetically, genuine confusion on his face as he said, "I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken, Miss. I hope you find what you're looking for, though." 

He showed me to the door, though in an admittedly-kind fashion. Unfortunately, once the door was closed and I'd walked down the steps to the sidewalk, I noticed something rather important. 

The bike had been stolen. 

"CRAP!" 

I ended up wandering around until I found an ATM for my bank, at which point I withdrew five hundred dollars. I wouldn't be able to withdraw any more until tomorrow, and I had no idea what a plane ticket to Genosha would cost. What was most worrying for me in the long-term was my lack of a passport; I'd need one to leave the country, after all, and it wasn't like Omi or my uncles have ever been the sort to offer my family free plane tickets or all-expense-paid vacations to Europe or something, so there wasn't any point in my having a passport before this. About sixty dollars paid for a room in a motel for the night, and a sparse dinner for myself. After I ate and took a shower with the motel-supplied shampoo, conditioner, and soap--there was some painful drama when some shampoo slipped into my left eye, setting me scrambling to rinse the remainders off my hands so I could flush the annoying stuff out with shower water--washing my underwear in the sink and blow-drying them into a wearable condition, I curled up on the hotel bed, wanting more than anything to wake up and have today be nothing but a disturbing dream. 

Instead I was woken at--according to the battered alarm clock on the nightstand--four in the morning by Xavier's annoying and still-weak thought-noodle. Peachy. 

'I don't want any; go away.' 

'Margaret, really, must you persist in being obstinate in all things?' 

'I'm not obstinate in all things; just the people and ideas that annoy me. Your plan didn't work, by the way. They didn't know me, or remember you. And the bike I borrowed from the school's garage was stolen--which I'm not going to pay for, by the way.' 

Unusual for me up until this point in regards to Xavier, I was actually feeling rather worried for him. His presence, for lack of a better word, within my mind felt even weaker than when he first contacted me a few hours back. Despite my lack of respect toward the man, I certainly didn't want him hurt, much less dead. 

I sighed to myself and, unable to keep my concern from my mental voice, said, 'Do you have any other ideas?' 

'Unfortunately no. Wanda hasn't sent her construct-caretakers to me in a few days and, while distracted by her sons--who are also mental constructs of hers--it still is not easy for me to get past her notice to contact you.' 

While that whole "mental construct kids" bit had me more than a tad intrigued, what really got my attention was the qualifier of "a few days" in regards to Xavier's lack of care. As interested as I am in being a doctor some day, of course I've always paid attention to any references as to what the human body can handle. A person can go quite some time without food at all, depending on how much fat and muscle mass they have. Downside number one: Xavier's rather lean and fit for a man his age--heck, for a man several years younger than him!--which makes sense considering how much work his arms would have gotten back before he got a motorized wheelchair, but his build and his disability leaves him with a low percentage of body fat and already-atrophied muscles in his legs. His body doesn't have much to feed off of. Downside number two: as long as the human body can go without food, it is incredibly limited when it comes to water. Without water to drink--or in Xavier's current most likely case an I.V.--a person will die after three or four days without fluids. 

And that wasn't even taking into account the nastiness that could happen if his catheter wasn't replaced regularly. Face it, we pee to get rid of toxins our bodies produce. Don't let a person pee for long enough, and either their bladder will burst or the toxins will poison them to death. Eww. On the positive side of that particular spectrum, a lack of water would slow down the process of a catheter filling and minimize the chances his bladder bursting, but up his chances of being poisoned because the toxins would be more concentrated. 

'Wait, hold up! Define "a few" there!' I needed to know how long I had until the man was as good as dead. I'd have to think of something incredibly drastic if he was almost at the point of no return, after all...

'...I'm not entirely certain. A day and a half, I suppose; two days at the most.' 

Okay, well then. He wasn't in immediate life-threatening danger, but we were getting close to the borderline. 

Borderline...Boarders...Boarding...Carry-ons...Luggage...

'How long is a flight to Genosha?' 

Three hours later found me crawling under a rather raggedy chain-link fence that surrounded the grounds of JFK airport. I was quite certain that I'd never have gotten away with what I was planning on doing in a million years if the world was normal--as normal as it ever got, really--but as it wasn't, I had hope. 

After finishing my conversation with Xavier--pointedly not giving him any hints as to what my plan was incase his jailer decided to take a look at his thoughts--I'd double-checked I had everything of mine, checked out of the motel, made one last withdrawal from my bank account, and caught a bus to the airport. There I'd done a careful job not to be noticed, checking the Departure screens for any likely flights. There weren't really many options as far as destinations, I noticed: three to Israel, which got a raised eyebrow from me, a couple to LA, and one to Latveria. Everything else--though there weren't nearly as many flights heading out as I suspected was normal--was for Genosha. I memorized the gate numbers for the flights leaving within the next hour or two, then nonchalantly left the main check-in area. 

And that was how I'd gotten where I was now: slinking around the inside edges of the fencing, darting from scraggly bush to overgrown shrub as I made my way toward the waiting planes. Once or twice I'd had to throw myself to the ground as a plane roared over me in either takeoff or landing, wind buffeting and dirt, gravel, dust, etc. pummeling me. Finally I made the last dash from fence to the shadowed side of the terminal building. I was rather lucky that there were so few flights they only needed to use one terminal; otherwise this would take forever. 

I finally hit a snag, however, when I made one last sprint, this one for the conveyor belt leading up into the cargo hold of a soon-departing Genosha-bound plane. 

"HALT!" 

I tripped over my feet and went tumbling, glasses flying off my face. I could hear the skittering sound of the stainless-steel frames against the tarmac, and I sent a fervent prayer that, should I survive long enough to get them back, that the glass wouldn't be scratched too badly. 

The guards roughly flipped me over onto my back, and I couldn't hold back a few tears at the pain of my already-bruised body being pressed into the unyielding ground. They were obviously mutants, despite the fact that all I could see were some grayish blobs, because those blobs had smaller, brightly-colored blobs attached to them, and I could hear the crackle of energy and smell lightning. I was as good as dead. I didn't know why I'd ever thought I could succeed at something crazy like this; it wasn't like I was some hero from an old B-movie or something. I wasn't the Dread Pirate Roberts; heck, I wasn't even Princess Buttercup. I was just a bit-part extra in someone else's story. 

So imagine my surprise when the colored blobs winked out and one of the guards whispered in an oddly-scared voice, "Is it Her?" 

"No, it can't be Her; she's too young!" whispered back the other guard, his voice alternating between nervous and condescending. 

"But--but look at her! They're so alike!"

"No, it isn't Her." 

"What if they're related? What if ...?" 

"Right, this wouldn't do, then. Forgive us, Lady, but we didn't recognize you from a distance! We'll be right back with help for you!" 

And both gray blobs bolted off as if all the fiends of Hell were on their heels. 

That was just plain weird. 

I scrabbled about for my glasses, signing in relief when the heel of my left hand came in contact with them. I made a few swipes at the lenses with the hem of my t-shirt, then put them back in place perched upon my nose, glad that they hadn't been scratched. The guards undeniably gone, for what reasons I did not know or, at the moment, care, and so I picked myself up and limped my way up the now-still conveyor belt. The guards, as I'd thought of them, were probably doubling as baggage handlers or something, because nobody else was around. I did my best to secure myself in place amongst the luggage as far from the hatch as I could get and, once that was taken care of, I set to work assessing the damage. 

My legs had taken the brunt of my fall, so I fortunately didn't have any scrapes or cuts, but my jeans were torn in more than one place. Plus, the back of my button-up shirt--worn over a plain white t-shirt--had some kind of grease smeared over it, so I shucked that off, rolled it up with the grease on the inside and tucked it between my knees for the moment. I could use it for a pillow during the flight. 

As I set to work re-tying back my ponytails, I wondered what had spooked the guards. There wasn't anything particularly scary about me, or stunning. My mother was undeniably beautiful, something that I think still gets to--used to get to--Daddy on occasion, but I have the Kidder facial structure, as near as I can tell: round. Despite years of lean meals, I still have baby fat lingering around my face, so whether or not I end up keeping my facial resemblance to old pictures of Grandma, or angular cheekbones and chin show up, will determine which side of the family I look most like. I stared blankly at a lock of my hair. It really was the only defining feature on me, as it was a dark blood-reddish, with brownish highlights. I'd inherited it from my mother, who got it from Omi. I don't know where Omi might have gotten it from, as she says her entire family--though at one rendition of the Family Story she said clan, for some reason--was killed by the Nazis. Considering she spent years in Auschwitz, it also isn't surprising that she doesn't have any pictures of them. The only thing that sets my hair apart from Mom's and Omi's is that it's straight as a pin, where theirs are naturally masses of curls. Omi wears it Old-Lady short, but Mom wore hers long, because it minimized the amount the family had to spend on hair cuts. Daddy and the boys are easy because Mom could just give them all buzzes at home with a hair-trimmer attachment on Daddy's razor, but Mom and I still had to get our hair trimmed every month or two--sometimes three if money was tight. Omi goes to her "Hair Dresser" every week! I think she's nuts and oddly-wasteful for someone who's been through what she has, but whatever floats her boat. 

In any case, whatever those men saw in me didn't really matter, other than it'd gotten them away from me, and I was now on my way. 

I burrowed further down into the pile of duffle bags I'd settled in as I heard and felt the plane start up, the hatch thumping shut and plunging me into darkness. 

Genosha, here I come. 

Author's notes: My that was a long one. I hope you all enjoyed it! 

Good? Bad? Confusing? All will be explained in time. 

Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa. 

-- Rosy the Cat

3/30/06 


	6. Chapter 6

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc.. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of a few chapters back this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms! 

Chapter 6

When I stumbled out of that cargo hold more than ten hours later I was beyond tired. Due to the almost complete lack of soundproofing afforded between my accommodations and just about everything mechanical within the plane, I hadn't gotten any sleep until I pretty much passed out due to sleep deprivation the last hour and a half of the trip. If the triplets were alive, I'd lock them and Magneto up in a metal-free room for ten hours, the Dweebs armed with wooden spoons, breakable objects, and all the toy drums and firecrackers their little boy hearts could ever want. Maybe he'd know half the pain I'd endured with that plane. 

How I managed to get off without any security spotting me, I had absolutely no clue; then again, it's amazing I was coherent long enough to make it to the hatch, much less out of it and away from the air strip. In any case, I conked out in some bushes about a hundred yards away from the edge of the runway. 

The next thing I knew I was being shaken awake by a clawed hand. 

"PIRATE DUCKS!" 

"How infortuitious that I should come across one of my best students, only to discover she has gone mad with heat and dehydration." 

"Merg?" I blinked blearily, scrubbing one hand at the sleepies clinging to the corners of my eyes before slipping my glasses from my pocket and onto my face. 

"Dr. McCoy?" 

"Miss Kidder. Might I inquire how you came to be in this place at this time?" 

"It's more than a little crazy, and...Fudge it. There was a flash of light while I was writing in my diary yesterday--or with the time zones, was it the day before that?--and I found myself alone in the school, which was abandoned, critter-infested and disturbingly dirty. Blah-blah-blah, yakity-shmackity, Xavier finally returned my mental voice mail and asked me to get help because he's dying, but Mr. Summers and...Miss Frost...didn't remember me or him, so I ended up stowing away in a plane's baggage hold from New York to...here." 

Dr. McCoy looked incredibly concerned. "The Professor is dying?" 

I nodded. "I'm guessing neglect, starvation, and dehydration, with a possible side of not being able to relieve himself." 

Dr. McCoy nodded, his expression all-business as he offered me a hand up, which I took. 

"If you will come with me, I've acquired transportation with which to hasten our journey." Relieved at finally having a responsible adult to rely on, I followed him to an uncovered jeep. 

Once we were on our way and I'd settled into my seat, Dr. McCoy surprised me with a question. Though to his credit, before the question he'd surprised me with a couple water bottles, citing that I was looking and acting rather dehydrated myself. I gratefully took a rather large gulp from the first bottle, then continued with sips to minimize my chances of making myself sick. 

"I have heard some disconcerting things about your behavior outside of classes, Miss Kidder. That you've shown insubordination and disrespect toward the Professor. Is this true?" 

I spluttered on the water, spilling some on my shirt even as I turned in my seat, shocked and angry and just about ready to proverbially bite his head off because of the many levels of irritation and annoyance and hurt that had built up ever since that meeting-gone-wrong. Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on your viewpoint--I got tangled up in the seat belt and partially strangled before I got myself back in order. While I worked to get my breath back, I calmed down a bit. Nobody, much less someone of Dr. McCoy's intellect and experience, would take me seriously if I acted cheesed off, even if I had just cause to do so. He'd just dismiss me as a willful, stubborn, stereotypical teenager, which I wasn't. My issues with Xavier were serious and sincere and important. That was far more important to get across than how annoyed I was with the world as of late. 

Once I was as calm as I could get in such short notice--and back to sipping water between sentences--I explained what had happened between me and Xavier: how I'd had a good deal of initial mistrust toward him because I suspected his motives for getting me away from my family, how he'd basically given me no choice but to work with Miss Frost when Dr. Grey died, promising to talk to me about how I felt about her teaching methods, which he reneged on. How Miss Frost used our training sessions to be unduly superior and condescending toward me, blasting through my poorly-equipped shielding and rifling through my private thoughts and memories while taunting me about my lack of skill, never offering hints, clues or advice on how to get better. How she got even worse after the one time I spontaneously managed to kick her out of my head. How she continued her practice of going through people's heads to make sure they were paying attention in History class, particularly mine because I was distracted due to my being able to sense precisely what she was doing to everyone else. And then, to top it all off, her presence at my meeting with Xavier, and the meeting itself. 

"So you see, all I really wanted was to ask him about things that didn't make sense to me, or concerned me at one level or another. It was the built-up frustration with him and Miss Frost that might have made him think I was being disrespectful or something, but everything I said and asked about was perfectly valid. He had no right to yell at me, much less threaten to take away my privileges!" 

I stared at Dr. McCoy, hoping he'd understand. 

He sighed, and was apparently getting his thoughts in order to answer me. "What do you know about the school's history, Miss Kidder?" 

I shrugged, "Not much, other than it used to be Xavier's family estate or something, and that you, Mr. Summers, and Dr. Grey were among his founding students. Nobody really tells me much of anything at the school, outside of classes. I think Kitty for some reason expected me to already know, or that it never occurred to her that I might not know something." 

What he told me next was, on the one hand, simply and expansion of what I already knew, and, on the other, things that would've never occurred to me to ask about. He spoke of his own mutation--which had developed at birth as oversized limbs; the fur came later--how Xavier had offered him a chance to pursue an education without fear of his schoolmates' horror or panic. The outright joy he found in the school, the camaraderie with his then-new friends, who became like family. He also finally cleared up my questions of funding for the school: while some wealthy alumni--such as Warren Worthington III, aka Angel--made donations, a good deal of the school's budget had been, and to some level continued to be, bankrolled by the profits Xavier gained by selling various artifacts and treasures that had once decorated the Mansion/School. 

Boy was my face red at that one. 

Dr. McCoy was quick to reassure me that he understood why I'd been concerned about the funding issues, as he himself was from a family of predominantly blue-collared workers, but that I should have, and could have, been more tactful in my questioning. 

Something that further soothed my battered ego--yes, I acknowledge that I have one--were his comments that he agreed, to some extent, with my views on the school as a super-hero production line of a sort. While he'd obviously participated in the teams and the fighting and all of the other crazy stuff Xavier seems to advocate, Dr. McCoy's first priority had always been, he told me, his education and bettering himself mentally as well as physically. He also agreed that the startling lack of alumni entering the general workforce was disturbing, though he was not entirely certain how he might go about changing that. He approved of my plans to focus on my desired career, eschewing participation in the teams and possibly, he encouraged me, to keep observing the world around me and maybe keep an eye on politics. Educated and well informed, respectable people were most needed to speak on behalf of mutants in the public eye. 

I made the blanket statement that I thought pretty much all politicians were greedy idiots. I think he covered a smile at that, but he could have been swatting a bug for all I knew. 

Next thing I knew, however, I was clinging to the outer supports of the jeep and hoping not to get whiplash because Dr. McCoy was forced to engage in some evasive-maneuver driving due to the extreme application of laser bolts to the area around us. We'd come upon Magneto's lair/palace/whatever while distracted by conversation, and apparently were paying for our lack of attention. At one point I could have sworn I saw the Silver Surfer flying around and trying to avoid the weapon fire too, with two people wearing what looked like in the distance Doctor Doom armor riding on back of his board. 

Yes, we've established that my life is weird now. I think I'm getting disturbingly used to it, though, and that's either a bad thing or a mental defense mechanism. Who knows? 

In the split-instant between a bolt getting lucky and hitting the hood of the jeep and my finding myself sprawled in some tropical flowering plants, Dr. McCoy must have undone both of our seat belts and jumped us clear. 

While I just wanted this all to be over and a crazy dream--not for the first time since this started--Dr. McCoy said, "You will have to continue to the Professor on your own!" 

"ARE YOU NUTS!" 

"The security systems will judge me to be a threat, not you. Besides, I'll be in good company, it seems," he replied with a disturbing sense of calm despite his raised voice over the sound of blasts, gesturing to the assembled mass of super-heroes that included--to my perturbed amusement--Mr. Summers and Miss Frost. How that woman could possibly consider doing anything, much less fight, in that teeny-tiny skimpy travesty she apparently called a costume, I had no idea. She dropped that much further in my already-low opinion of her, the exhibitionist floozy. 

Apparently I was being too slow in my shock, because a second later my Chemistry teacher hauled me out of the foliage and shoved me in the direction of the main building. After stumbling a bit over my own feet, I regained my balance and tore off across the courtyard, absently noticing that Dr. McCoy was right: I wasn't being targeted by the lasers. Whoopee. 

I skidded to a stop once I made it inside, my mind frantically searching for Xavier's even as I doubled over, hands on my knees and frantically gasping for air. I found him, but apparently not quite fast enough because some guard was tearing down the corridor toward me, looking rather large and scary. All I can say on the subject is "Thank God for adrenaline and the fight or flight instinct," because those were the only things that kept me from keeling over in my already-considerable exhaustion. I had the random thought, as I dove into a waiting elevator and smacked what I guessed was the right floor button, that maybe I should take up swimming in my free time instead of horseback riding if I was going to keep getting into crazy situations between now and graduation June after next. 

In the time it took for the elevator to reach it's destination I'd both regained and calmed my breath and had to deal with some nasty leg cramps. Ow. 

Thus I ended up limping out of the elevator, already casting around for Xavier again. Just my luck, I'd underestimated his position by a floor! Growling, I hauled myself over to the nearby stairwell and started climbing. I stopped grumbling and started thanking any angel that was listening, however, when I heard the guard that had been after me earlier double-time it up onto the recently-vacated-by-me floor. I'd just missed running into him. That sent me up the stairs all the faster, careful to keep my tread as light as possible in the situation. He didn't follow me. 

I found the room Xavier was being kept in just in time to see what I think was the soon-to-be Mrs.--Lady?--Doom forcibly remove the doorknob and lock from a door down the hall and enter the room it led to. I wondered what that was about, and why she was wearing what looked like her fiancée's armor, but that wasn't nearly as important right then as what I was there to do. The door I had to go through was also locked, and unfortunately I didn't have a strength-enhancing doohickey to get me through. I scrambled around, finally settling on a potted plant sitting in the hallway, which I chucked at--and through--the floor-to-ceiling glass window that made up a good deal of the wall next to the door. The blinds that had cut off my view into the room served the purpose of keeping glass shards from flying too far into the room, which was handy. Ducking and keeping my arms tucked in at my sides, I sidled into the room through the hole left by the plant, glass crunching under my sneakers as I did my best to avoid slipping. When I pushed aside the blinds and stepped out into the room proper, I got my first look at Xavier in days. 

He looked awful; worse than awful, disturbing and scary and like death warmed over. And the smell was like baby diapers and sweaty guys just out of gym class times a thousand; that's the best I could manage for a mental description, though the reality was even worse, so far beyond my experience I truly was at a loss for words. He was skinny and gaunt, and I could see open, festering sores on what visible skin there was, of which there was more than there should have been because his blanket had apparently slipped down to his waist. 

I forced myself to move forward and start checking him for anything I could correct or help. The best I could do was start cleaning him up a bit, because if I tried to give him water or something else to drink while he was still unconscious, he might choke or accidentally inhale it and that would leave him worse than he already was. I reeled away at the first sight of his bedpan, which was full to overflowing, and probably the only reason why it wasn't swarming with flies was because the room had been locked up tight, with nobody in or out in days. After some frantic searching I located the biohazard trash can and just dumped the entire thing in there, replacing it with an unused clean one from a cupboard I raided while looking for bandages and cleaning supplies. I didn't have the first clue what to do with the obviously full catheter, so I decided to stick to what I knew. 

Two or three or a million--I was tired, and time seemed to lose meaning in that room--minutes later I threw myself into the visitor's chair, disgusted and dejected. I'd cleaned and applied gauze and medical tape to the sores I could see on his front, not willing or really capable of becoming detached enough to deal with what was--in my mind--no-man's land. I was glad I'd washed my hands before sitting, because I could feel tears welling up as the emotions I'd been holding in check for the past two days came roaring loose. I curled up in that uncomfortable plastic chair and just let myself be as dejected as I felt. I didn't know what I was doing! I wasn't a trained anything; I knew some first-aid, and some low-level Red Cross training from a baby-sitting class I took when I was twelve, and what I'd been taught in Biology class and learned already for Chemistry, but that was nowhere near what level of care Xavier needed now. He needed professional help, but Dr. McCoy was blatantly busy at the moment and I had no idea when he'd be free to take over here. 

My mother would know what to do; she was a RN, a Registered Nurse, and had worked in a hospital for years. But she was dead; no help was coming...

-Pop!-

"Meg?" 

My head snapped up, eyes frantically searching the room. I froze at the sight of the room's new addition. 

"Mom?" 

"Meg? What's going on? Where are we, and how did we get here?" 

Questions didn't matter in that precious instant. My mother was ALIVE. 

"MOMMY!" I flung myself into her arms. Pick on me if you want, but right then I wasn't Meg Kidder, future doctor, or even Meg Kidder, reasonably powerful--to my knowledge--telepath and mutant. I was just a girl who really, really needed a Mommy-Hug after a really bad day. Or two days, really. 

For a small eternity it was just me and her and the love between us, and all was well and right in the world, because she was there, and nothing could be completely wrong or bad as long as I had her. 

Finally I pulled back only to settle against her shoulder, rubbing my cheek comfortingly against the familiar worn cotton of my mother's favorite attitude shirt--it said "Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, because, like, you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup." I think I'm the only person in my entire family, extended and immediate, that gets her sense of humor. I'm tempted to ask for a t-shirt I saw in a shop a while back that says "Caution: cape does not enable user to fly" for Christmas. I think the kids at school would get a hoot out of it. 

Mom broke the silence by saying, "What's going on, munchkin?" 

I explained everything that had happened since I'd last spoken to her on the phone as quickly as I could, ending with my lack of ability to help Xavier and the ensuing depression at that fact. 

Mom instantly went into what the Dweebs and I have long ago agreed, ratified and proclaimed to be Mega Mom mode, though in this case there was a great deal of Super Nurse thrown into the mix. I only really knew the difference due to a couple "Take Your Daughter to Work Day"s spent at the hospital watching her in action. She was soon puttering around authoritvely, raiding the supply cupboards for things that it wouldn't have occurred to me to use, directing me to assist her in things she needed more than one pair of hands for, and generally being in her element. I learned quite a bit during that, and my already-hefty respect and admiration towards this woman who gave me life increased dramatically. I helped her get Xavier turned on either side, as well as flipping him completely over onto his front, though I refused to look at some points, which got grins at my embarrassment from the mother peanut gallery. 

I'd have glared at her for that just about any other day, but I was too giddy at having her there and alive right then. 

After quite a bit of time spent working on cleaning and bandaging--as well as emptying the catheter, which was gross, and putting in a new I.V. drip--Xavier surprised us both by waking up, blinking groggily. He ended up dropping back into what Mom assured me was a far more natural state of sleep, exhausted. We were just finishing up changing his sheets and moving him back onto the bed from a gurney when Magneto barged in, the steel lock automatically snapping open at the door before he even reached it, which is when my now-more-alert mind registered that the entire door was steel. It was just as well that I hadn't tried to kick it down movie-style in my desperation earlier; I'd have broken my foot, at least. 

"What in the world-!" 

He was cut off by Mom lobbing a tongue depressor at his head, where it pinged off of his helmet. My mom is so cool. 

"Would you please be quiet? He just started sleeping normally, and it makes our job easier this way." She gave me some last-minute reminders about moving the injured, which largely applied in the situation, and with a simultaneous heave from both of us moved Xavier back over. Mom stripped off the latex gloves she'd been wearing after double-checking the various monitors, tubes and cables connected to the man before making her way professionally over to Magneto. At that point she basically ripped into him verbally for letting anyone's physical condition degenerate so badly, and wasn't he ashamed of himself, etc., etc., etc. 

Meanwhile, as I took off my own gloves, cleaned up and tidied the supplies, I kept noticing out of the corner of my eyes that Magneto seemed to be giving Mom and I odd looks, back and forth between us. What was particularly weird about his looking at us was that there was something to it that made me think he was bordering on some sort of epiphany, but he couldn't quite manage it. He finally left when he threw up his hands and stomped out of the room, Mom leaning out the door and throwing a few last zingers. I'd already ascertained that whatever fight had been going on outside was now over, so I'd asked Dr. McCoy telepathically if he might come and double-check our work so we could get Xavier out of here, and all of us home. 

Eventually we got out of there, Xavier loaded on a gurney again and we made it to the ramp up into the X-men's Blackbird jet. It was very...big. And shiny. 

Unfortunately, Miss Frost decided to throw her weight around and basically have a one-person "I'm So Great" party, picking on me all the while and not noticing that Xavier had woken up again. I had, and furthermore I'd noticed that my mom was equally as unimpressed with Miss Frost as I was. 

At the first significant pause for breath, Mom struck. 

"Margaret Ruth, would this be the teacher you told me about that has been mentally abusing you?" 

I quickly stifled the slow grin that wanted to spread across my face as I realized what my mother was doing. This was going to be too good to cheapen with witty repartee. 

"Why, yes, Mother Dearest, she is." 

Mom walked right up to Miss Frost, almost in her face, and said, "Give me one good reason why my husband and I shouldn't sue you for child endangerment." 

"You're bluffing." 

In that one instant, my mother became a hell of a lot scarier than Miss Frost could ever imagine being, Dominatrix Chic clothes and all. This was a Mother on the Warpath, and everybody knows that you never want to get between a Mama Bear and her Cub.

"Emma, this is nowhere near the first time I've had student or parent complaints regarding your teaching methods. I'm afraid you're both no longer on the team, as well as no longer welcome in my school." 

That was Xavier. He'd just earned his first Cool Point in my books. 

"WHAT!" 

The whiney bitch-fest continued all the way back to the school, whereupon it turned out that time had reverted to that day this whole thing started on. Miss Frost packed up her things and left with Mr. Summers--who gave the excuse that he needed some time away from the school, but it's obvious to anyone with eyes that he's totally whipped--in tow. Mom called home to check on Dad and the guys, who are fine, and Miss Munroe offered to drive Mom back into town. 

Now, here I stand in my dorm room, staring down at my diary on the floor by my bed. Carnation is happily curled up by my pillow, feeling a lot better than I think he was back before, but I can't be certain. Plopping to the ground, I open the diary to the last entry: 

July 16th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

I spent a good chunk of the morning talking to Mom on the phone. My parents can only afford to call me once every two weeks, so we had a lot to catch up on. We talked about lots of things, but the main issue is that I'm going to have to pay for Carnation's Vet bills out of my allowance, which stinks. I wish Daddy's job's insurance covered medical bills for pets, and for what the Vet's work is going to cost me, Lockheed had better keep away from me or declare a truce with Carnation, because going without book money for more than three months will have me cranky beyond belief. 

Anyway, Mom found the story Marie told me about Magneto's latest fight--apparently she overheard the rest of Magneto's rant with Xavier after I left, or somebody else did and told her--with Doctor Doom weird. I don't know why, personally; the soon-to-be Mrs. Doom sounds wicked smart and resourceful. And, best of all, she doesn't wander around covered in spandex--sorry, "unstable molecules"--like so many people I seem to be around of late. I've seen the economic statistics on Latveria--one thing Xavier's is good for is 24-hour internet access, which my parents can't afford and I only got during school hours at my old school--and they're doing quite well. Genosha will be far better off economically if they let Latveria help them out, though they'd be a heck of a lot better off politically if President--or whatever his political title is--Lensherr aka Magneto would shut up about mutant superiority. It makes him sound like a Nazi. Besides, I know having to hear other people's thoughts every time I put my shields down doesn't make me feel superior. More like I'm being invaded. The man has no idea what he's talking about, honestly. 

And Xavier really shoul

What to add? How to sum up my entire experience in writing? 

I clicked my pen on, and finished with this: 

I have undeniable evidence within my life now that it isn't what you can do that matters in life, but rather what you actually do, to the best of your ability--ALL of your abilities--that matters. That, and no matter how weird things get, I can always depend on those I love best. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder

Author's notes: Yay! I finished the House of M arc! 

(breaks into the Snoopy Dance!)

Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru/co-conspirator Gevaisa. 

-- Rosy the Cat

4/5/06 


	7. Chapter 7

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc.. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of a few chapters back this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms! 

Chapter 7

July 17th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

I skipped church for the first time in years, and for the first time ever for a reason other than being sick. Granted, given the fact that I was physically and mentally exhausted to the point that I slept through both my alarm clock and Sophia lobbing her pillow at my head, I had more than just cause to do so. Still, I felt rather guilty when I finally woke up and it was after noon. Kitty was an absolute godsend and brought me some food from the cafeteria, since I'd missed lunch. Sure it was just a sandwich and some grapes, but it was a heck of a lot better than what little I'd had time to eat during that whole spazzed-out world-thing. 

I wonder, how is it that--according to the calendar--almost no time passed between the universe blinking out of existence and it blinking back to normal, yet I was still tired, sore and feeling generally yucky? 

Anyway, after my lunch and a shower that wasn't as long as I'd've liked it, I was basically herded to the infirmary to be checked over by Dr. McCoy, who recommended I eat a lot of little meals over the next few days, and drink plenty of fluids. Xavier's still bed bound and on an I.V., so until he's better Dr. McCoy and Miss Munroe are splitting duties as acting principals--headmaster/headmistress, whatever--and I think they'll do a great job. Kurt's going to be in charge in a few days, however, because they and Kitty--and I think her boyfriend, who I haven't met--are invited to the Von Doom wedding. 

I don't know why, but I wish I was going. It's silly of me, really, considering I don't have anywhere near the spare money to buy an appropriate dress for something like that, short of emptying my college savings...I guess it's just my inner little girl that still wants to be part of a fairy tale. 

Anyway, Dr. McCoy said he was rather impressed with my work in Genosha to help Xavier--My guess is that Mom got all "proud mother" and started singing my praises while they were talking on the trip back to the school--and has offered to let me assist in the infirmary part-time after school and on weekends as a sort of informal internship/training to get me some experience here and now. I'll freely admit I perked up when he said he'd give me the training to be certified for Red Cross, and that he'd discuss with Xavier if I could be paid half minimum wage, and have half minimum wage deducted from my tuition for every hour of work. That would be so freakin' awesome! 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

As I put my diary away in my back pack, switching it for my copy of "Beauty" by Robin McKinley, the phone on the end table beside me rang. 

Bobby called from his place in front of the TV. with Marie and Kitty playing a video game, saying, "Maggie, could you get that?" 

That got him a sofa pillow chucked at the back of his head and a "Don't call me Maggie, jerk!" for his troubles, though I did answer the phone anyway. 

"Xavier's School, Meg Kidder speaking." 

After ascertaining who it was and who they were calling for, I asked them to wait a minute. I covered the mouthpiece and said, "Kitty, there's some Russian-sounding guy named Piotr who wants to talk to you." 

Faster than a speeding skateboard, Kitty'd hit pause on the game--to the annoyance of Bobby and the amusement of Marie--and launched herself across the room, snatching the phone receiver from my hand. I blinked a few times in surprise. 

"Hi Peter!" And she was off and running. I ended up tuning her out by reading through her nearly hour-long conversation--during which Bobby roped someone else into taking Kitty's spot in the game--only being brought back out of my "reading zone" at the click of the phone and sudden silence. I glanced out of the corner of my eye to check on my roommate/best friend, and put my book down at the look on her face. 

She looked like someone had told her she had Cancer of the Puppy. 

"Kitty? What is it?" I was concerned. Hardly anything, in my admittedly limited experience, got Kitty Pryde down for long, if at all. Marie had turned around too, handing off her controller and making her way over. 

"Peter can't go with me to the Von Doom wedding; he says he's got schedule conflicts." 

Ah. Relationship problems. I didn't know all of the ins and outs, but I knew that Kitty, Miss Munroe and Xavier--though he wasn't going due to current health issues, and Dr. McCoy is going in his place--had all been invited to the Von Doom wedding because of something involving Doctor Doom helping Kitty when her powers went wonky for some reason. Of course she'd want to bring her boyfriend along for something like that. And if he was originally supposed to go, that meant that whoever was planning the wedding was expecting four people from the school, and showing up with one less person could be almost as disruptive to things as bringing an extra person would. Someone not showing up could also be construed as an insult, especially since the wedding was for a head of state. 

Just because I hated Miss Frost didn't mean I hated studying history, the subject she'd taught. I actually really liked history. 

Marie squeezed Kitty's hand with her gloved one. "Ah'm sorry, Kitty; Ah know you really wanted Peter to be there." 

Kitty sniffled, then froze. She slowly turned to me, a calculating look to her face. I was automatically wary. 

"What?" 

"Will you go with me to the wedding, Meg? I'll be your best friend ever!" 

"You're already my best friend." 

"See! It's perfect! You can come with me and I won't get bored surrounded by politicians and diplomats." 

"Ah, I see; so you only want me for my ability to keep ennui at bay," I said in a teasing tone. I became more than a tad wistful as I said, "I've never been to a wedding before, you know; by the time I was old enough to have gone to one, it was my youngest uncle's wedding and Mom was cheesed off at the family in general so bad that we even boycotted Passover that year." 

"Now that's just a crime! Come on, I'll go get Ororo and tell Hank and we're going shopping." 

"Shopping? Wait, what!" 

"Well, you need a new dress, duh! Ooh, and shoes! We'll totally need to get you shoes!" 

I threw a desperate look back at Marie and Bobby, who both looked like they were fighting laughter. 

"Save me from this mad, mad woman!" 

At that they stopped holding back and burst out into giggles and such. Traitors! 

July 18th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Thank God for small favors because by the time Kitty tracked down Miss Munroe and Dr. McCoy after dragging me hither and yon through the school, it was far too late in the day to implement the esteemed Miss Pryde's plan to drive me batty and/or kill me due to excessive shopping. Unfortunately it's only a small reprieve, as Miss Munroe is taking us both into NYC for shopping after her classes--and on the school's credit card, no less, though that's largely because we're going as representatives of the school and have to look dignified or something--and considering how close she and Kitty are, it'll probably be like being dragged by Kitty Squared. 

I swear Mom let off some evil cackles or something when she found out I'm going. She may or may not have also mentioned tormenting Omi with this, so I wish her joy of it; she gets so few chances to stick it to her mother as it is, and thus needs all the fun she can get. This might even be heart palpitation-worthy! 

I had to take some extensive quizzes to see if I was far along enough in my classes to miss a few days for traveling and the wedding itself last night before bed, but I obviously did very well since I am going. We're leaving a day and a half before the wedding, but we still won't get there until late at night, giving us just enough time to crash into a longish nap to go with any sleep we get on the plane over. Also, I don't know how, but SOMEHOW requests for a rushed job on a shiny-new passport for me were sent in, and I'll be able to legally leave the country this time. Yippee! 

Well, I've got to go: homework to collect and then shopping. Fun. 

Leaving for the wedding--which is on the 21st--tomorrow morning. Ack! 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

I spent most of my morning running from class to class, picking up my homework for the days I'll be out of the country--basically all my homework for the entire week. At least I'll have the weekend to recover. 

After third period--Miss Munroe apparently had everybody in her classes take an appropriate chapter test that another teacher could supervise--we wedding-goin'-girls piled into a school car and went shopping. Now, considering I rarely ever get to go shopping--and then I'm limited on how many things I can get and how much I can spend--I suppose most people would assume I'd find some heretofore unknown passion for fashion--that rhyming was unintentional--and tear apart every store we went to in my resulting glee. I didn't. I undeniably have inherited my mother's inability to enjoy shopping for anything other than books and movies, which she in turn must have inherited from Opa, because Omi's always been a shopaholic. 

I was dragged from designer boutique to designer boutique, because apparently you can't show up for a State event wearing anything that doesn't have some snooty person who surrounds themselves with anorexic models' seal of approval on it, much less something with a non-exorbitant price. After the third store I had to apologize to Kitty, because I was just plain uncomfortable with the very idea of my spending so much money on a dress that I'd wear once--maybe twice if we went to Passover with the Goldberg side next year and I didn't grow too much--and never wear again. Something nice enough for a Royal Wedding, after all, is far too nice to wear to church every Sunday. 

I was waiting outside a shoe store for Kitty and Miss Munroe to finish up--I'd finally made my first purchase of the day and gotten some sensible yet pretty plain white sandal pumps with a low-ish heel--when one clothing store in particular caught my eye from across the street. The sign proclaimed it to be a vintage store with low prices, and there was a rather pretty--but plain--sleeveless dress of iridescent sky blue in the window. 

I turned back toward the shoe store, sticking my head into the doorway and called out to the others, who were browsing and trying things on, "I'm gonna go look in that vintage store over there; is that okay?" 

I got some noncommittal murmurs and grunts, and took that as an okay. Scurrying to the nearest crosswalk, I was practically bouncing in place while I waited for the lights to change, then almost bolted across, slowing marginally in deference to pedestrian traffic once I was back on sidewalk. 

The first thing I noticed upon entering the shop was the smell. It was fragrant and woody, in a subtle sort of way, that reminded me of the inside of Omi's omoir whenever I was sent to get out the tablecloth or candlesticks or whatever when helping to set the dinner table. It was a smell of age and elegance. I immediately decided that, even if I didn't buy anything here today, this store was my new favorite place. 

The second thing I noticed was that there were a lot of different things, but few things seemed to be multiple versions of the same item. I approached the blue dress that had caught my eye with a fair amount of trepidation: if it was too small for me, I was sunk, and if it was too big, I wouldn't have time to alter it to fit. I asked the sales clerk on duty if I could try the dress on, and she took it off the mannequin and directed me to a changing room. 

Even as I removed my jeans and t-shirt while kicking off my shoes I was praying quietly under my breath: "Please, God, let it fit; let this be my last stop; let this be the right dress..." 

I was startled by the smooth coolness of the dress as I dropped it over my head, belatedly realizing that it was, in fact, silk. I twisted it around so I could read the tags and nearly collapsed with relief: there were directions for machine washing on the back of the main tag, though I got nervous again when the sizing looked like an unfamiliar system. Twirling the dress back around, I slipped my arms into the appropriate holes, tossed my ponytails forward over my shoulders, and slowly slid the zipper back up, tensing in anticipation of possibly needing to suck in my tummy. I didn't need to, it seemed, as the zipper stopped at the neckline. One last deep breath, two tugs to hair bands to free my mane, and I stepped out of the dressing room and in front of a three-way mirror. 

And stared. The dress fit me perfectly, as if tailored to my shape--not too tight, not too loose--and...it was beautiful. I was beautiful. I twisted and turned, trying to find anything wrong with the narrow-skirted, slit-to-the-knee dress, and found nothing. What were the odds? 

"Oh, Meg, that's gorgeous!" cried Kitty over the tinkling of the door bells even as she and Miss Munroe entered the shop. I nodded dumbly. 

Miss Munroe looked at it with a critical eye, then said, "It is quite lovely on you, but it's also rather plain, particularly for where we will be going. Perhaps a shawl, or light jacket?" 

The others descended on the rest of the shop like a two-person swarm of locusts, thrusting various spangly and sparkly bits, bobs and doodads at me, but what I eventually chose I picked for myself. There was a lovely short-sleeved bolero jacket of white lace that had been touched here and there by gold in some sort of pattern. Kitty objected that it was also too plain, but I already had ideas swarming through my head. I had some silk ribbons hoarded up with my sewing kit back at the school--former decorations of birthday and Hanukah presents from Omi and my aunts and uncles--that would make lovely accents to the bolero. I cheerfully removed both jacket and dress in the changing room, threw my regular clothes back on, and walked my choices to the counter, where Miss Munroe pulled out the school's credit card one last time to pay for it. One quick stop at a sidewalk cafe for a late lunch, and we headed back to the school triumphant. 

I spent the rest of the day seated on my bed adding a dark blue ribbon to the edges of the jacket, and a leftover snippet of lace ribbon threaded with an emerald green silk was cut in half and sewn on, with snaps in the center, to be a closure for the bolero. I kept looking up at the dress, smiling, though I had to chase Carnation away from both it and the bolero a few times when he got a bit too interested in sniffing them. I gave him a bit of ribbon that had partially unraveled sometime over the years while I wasn't looking as a toy, and he went bonkers with that until I was done, finishing just in time for dinner. I was rather proud of my alteration work, and my sewing's been excellent for years due to the necessity of having to do one's own repair work like Mom and I do. 

Slipping the dress and jacket into the garment bag Miss Munroe'd given me earlier and hanging it up in my closet, I finished my last bits of packing into my only suitcase and settled in to read more of "Beauty." I fell asleep before I could finish the chapter, cat curled up next to me on my pillow. It had been a good day, shopping frustration aside. 

Author's notes: Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa, who's been the bestest ever with back-and-forth brainstorming. 

-- Rosy the Cat

4/10/06 


	8. Chapter 8

Don't Kid a Kidder 

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of a few chapters back this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms!

Author's note: I've had a crappy week or so; first I was sick and missed a bunch of classes, then I had to pull a research paper on an aspect of the Renaissance out of my butt for my Shakespeare class. I had a little over a week, but in classic me style procrastinated and ended up writing a seven-page paper in two hours, skipping my Spanish class. Oh well, I think I did a pretty good job, even if the word-count limit kept me from using even half of the sources I researched. And now, here I am, writing because Gevaisa popped out a new chapter and inspired me to get cracking. Gracias, mi amiga!

Chapter 8

July 19th, 2005:

Dear Diary,

Got up at the ass-crack of dawn, aka five-thirty, because apparently Kitty was hyper and couldn't sleep all last night and couldn't wait any longer and decided to have me share in her insomnia. Ever so glad I turned in early, then.

My last-minute packing consisted of shoving double-bagged toiletries into my duffle--Kitty warned me that shampoo and stuff can explode on plane rides because of air pressure changes--and deciding not to wear my new shoes on the plane, but instead wear my light tan church shoes that I got for last Passover/Easter. Kitty then dragged me downstairs for breakfast, disturbingly twitchy over my taking my time. There was no reason not to, anyway, since we were going in the school's/super-team's/whatever's jet, the Blackbird, and thus didn't need to deal with JFK, and we weren't leaving until, like, eight. I planned to sleep until my normal wake-up time--six-thirty--but far be it for me to keep Kitty from being a stereotypical girl who needs an ungodly amount of time to prepare for the simplest things.

Anyway, after breakfast we went back upstairs and I deliberated over what book to pack in my back pack as spare reading material--I was already half-way through "Beauty"--decided on "Catherine, Called Birdy" by Karen Cushman, pet my cat while reassuring him of my undying affection, and about half an hour before we were to leave, got dressed. I wore a knee-length tan skirt with a violet-print blouse, which normally served as spring and summer church-wear, but I figured church-level nice was my best bet to serve as the most casual I'd be able to wear on this trip. Kitty dressed similarly--nice but not too nice--so I figured I'd be fine. In any case I was dressed and with luggage in hand--duffle and garment bag hanging over arms, back pack on...well, my back--while waiting at the front door for Kitty and Miss Munroe, sharing commiserating looks with Dr. McCoy.

The only real snafu I had was remembering that I hadn't reminded Marie to take care of Carnation while I was gone, though I'd asked her shortly after my inclusion on this trip was made final. Marie ended up shoving me out the door so I didn't hold the others up, much to my embarrassment. Can anyone really blame me, though? I haven't been parted from my adorable fluff-ball for longer than a school day--reality-altering situation notwithstanding--since I got him. He's my baby; what kind of mother would I be if I weren't concerned for his safety and well being, I tell you?

Anyway, after that the trip was--and continues to be--rather smooth. I was too exhausted on the trip back from Genosha to notice, but I definitely prefer traveling via the Blackbird to the cargo hold of a commercial jet. The seats are quite comfy, and it's a heck of a lot quieter.

We've been in the air about five hours, so I'm gonna take a quick trip to the little girls' room and then have a nap, if I can manage it. I'm now three-fourths of the way through "Beauty," and it's a good thing I'll have the wedding to distract me, otherwise I'd run out of book-y goodness long before we head back to the school.

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.

July 20th, 2005:

Dear Diary,

I napped my way through the rest of the flight and though we're now in Latveria and it's just after dinner--Dr. McCoy and Miss Munroe sprang for room service, as we were too late for the organized dinner up at the castle so we stuck to our hotel--I'm positively exhausted. We have to get up early again tomorrow because the wedding's at ten. Yay! I'm off to bed; again.

My this mattress is comfortable...

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.

July 21st, 2005:

Dear Diary,

Okay, this time it was me getting Kitty up at a disgustingly early hour--a little before five, if you're wondering--due to nerves. Call me crazy, but I think I'm entitled to be a tad hyper and jittery when the first wedding I've ever attended happens to be a royal one. Gah! Kitty managed to talk me down somehow and send me to the bathroom to take a shower, though by the time I got out she was already asleep again. Apparently my nervous pacing wasn't the only thing I was doing, because Miss Munroe came over a few minutes later and helped me calm down long enough to get my shields solid and my emotions under control, before getting Kitty out of bed and in the shower for her own bathing.

Once Kitty was out and her hair blow-dried--I air-dried my hair, I always have and I have little patience for dealing with something loud that blasts my head with hot air, not to mention I wouldn't know how to use one correctly anyway. Good thing I was the first one up then, I suppose.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah...So Kitty and I scrambled around getting ourselves ready, with me getting on my dress and doing my hair--a high pony tail that Kitty twisted up and stuck what was basically glorified, though pretty, chopsticks in to keep the twist in place--but Kitty insisted I wear at least a little make-up, so we dealt with that. As pretty as I ended up looking, I still don't think it would be quite worth the effort to do something like that every day, or even particularly often. Plus, of course, unless I want to spend less of my allowance on books--which I don't--I couldn't afford makeup. I think I'll do my best to avoid formal situations from now on, at least until I'm old enough to have my own job, or, you know, mooch off of Kitty on the few pertinent occasions until she graduates.

Anyway, we're done now, so it's time to boogie on down the road! ...Or, you know, go to the wedding. Whichever floats your boat.

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder.

So once we were all dressed--by that point we, as in Kitty and I, were both too nervous to eat anything, not even the muffins and stuff that had been sent up for us--the grown-up-types walked us up to the castle--can I say that that place was so BIG it makes the school look teeny?--and, after we all got through security, Kitty dragged me off to explore. Is it a bad sign that my best friend has a disturbing ability to haul me around when I'd rather stay put? She's got this tiny ballerina build, and while I'm rather thin I'd like to think I've got some muscle tone, plus I'm taller than her, she still manages to pull me all over. I suspect she's using her powers to an unfair advantage, but I haven't been hurt as a result yet so the jury's still out on whether it's worth raising a fuss over.

So anyway, after we'd walked through the room the wedding gifts were being displayed in--and let me say "Wow," "Shiny," and "Yow!"--our hunger finally made itself known...

Growl

"Was that your stomach or mine, Kitty?"

GROWL

"Mine I guess, but I'm pretty sure that last one was yours!"

"Har-de-har-har; it is to laugh. And where are you going?" The second bit was said with no little confusion with a side of panic, as the only people heading in the same direction I could see looked like staff.

"The kitchens; we're both hungry, and I don't think Doctor Doom'll take kindly if his wedding's interrupted by the grumbling of hungry tummies, Meg. You coming?"

I stood in indecision for a few seconds, then bolted after Kitty, clinging to her hand. After all, the safest place in the world is right next to someone who can make themselves and whoever they're touching intangible. Worse case scenario, we bolt through a few walls and back to the teachers. She squeezed my hand in an attempt at comforting, but all I felt at that point was a vague urge to barf.

The kitchens were bustling and busy, but Kitty found a rather nice chef that spoke English and didn't mind letting us have a quick foray through the appetizers for later. God bless 'em.

So anyway, we were carefully working our way back to the doors when the Human Torch, who wasn't torch-like at the moment, and the Thing wandered through. The Torch's purpose was quite clear, as his eyes were fixated on the butt of a particularly pretty pastry chef. The Thing seemed to be playing watchdog for the Torch, though he looked rather nervous. I gave him a commiserating smile, but the next thing I knew Kitty'd tackled me under--no THROUGH--a steel worktable and a bunch of the pies on top of it. We crouched there for a bit, careful to keep our skirts away from the floor as we figured out what had happened.

First of all, any sensible single person knows to look for any obvious signs of emotional, spiritual, or marital attachment to another person in or on anyone they might be interested in before pursuing. It leads to fewer embarrassed moments, and is just plain common sense. Apparently the Torch really is a hothead in personality, because that pastry chef he'd been following like a puppy? She was wearing an engagement ring.

Second of all, apparently the fiancé in question also worked in the kitchens. You can see where this is going. Punches were thrown, workers holding carefully crafted edibles were knocked into, and retaliation was meted out. Unfortunately the Thing was so nervous that he attacked at the first sign of danger. That's why, Kitty told me under the table, she'd tackled me. Apparently one of the Thing's boulder-esque fists had gotten disturbingly close to my head, and all the telepathy in the world wouldn't have saved me from a pulverized noggin.

At Kitty's suggestion, I lowered my shields just enough to send out a distress call to Dr. McCoy and Miss Munroe, but I cut myself off before making contact because the Thing lost his balance. Right onto a table; a table that held two identical wedding cakes.

Let me describe those cakes, because they really were beautiful works of art in and of themselves. They looked like someone had sculpted them entirely out of porcelain, artistically studded them with pearls, and painted them--or plated them, as some parts were shiny and other parts had a sort of matte finish--with gold and silver. Also coated in what could have been precious metals were leaves, vines, and flowers, though there were some shaped as jasmine that had a pearly shimmer instead. They were positively gorgeous.

In a split-second, they were positively airborne. And then they were positively pulverized as they landed on counter space and kitchen workers and super heroes and floor, all indiscriminately. What looked like the head chef was positively PISSED.

I don't know who threw the first pie, but I know exactly who yelled-

"FOOD FIGHT!"

"Honestly, Kitty!"

And it was on like Donkey Kong. In my defense I only threw one pie, and that was at the Torch, because this was all his and his hormones' fault, no question. It's not MY fault the pastry chef he'd been chasing got in the way while running for safety, after all. It was pretty funny, though.

Kitty finally came to her senses after her own third flung pie and the fifth time she had to phase to keep us from being splattered, and we both bolted for the wall, which lead to the walk-in freezer, which led to the courtyard where we were supposed to sit for the wedding.

Miss Munroe and Dr. McCoy took one look at us and both raised an eyebrow. Kitty and I took quick stock of our clothing, relieved to find we were still pristine. I supposed they could hear the shouting coming from the kitchens.

"WE DIDN'T DO IT!"

The teachers just groaned, while the African man next to Miss Munroe--holycrapit'sthekingofWakanda!--just looked amused.

It was a good thing we were directed to our seats at that point, because otherwise we'd probably have been in deep trouble.

Author's notes: Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa, who's been the bestest ever with back-and-forth brainstorming.

Oh, and by the way, Gevaisa's "Minion" can be found at http / www . fanfiction . net/ s/ 2530396/ 1/ . Just take out the spaces and you'll be fine.

-- Rosy the Cat

4/18/06


	9. Chapter 9

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of a few chapters back this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms! 

Chapter 9

Back at Xavier's...

Carnation Kidder yawned, stretching his powerful legs out from his afternoon nap, and immediately set to work bathing himself. While doing so, he took the time to surreptitiously scope out the lay of the land around him, as Not Long Ago the Purple Not-Cat had attacked him here in his new territory, unprovoked. While it had resulted in his Girl being extra-vigilant while he was too injured to do so himself--he had an excellent, well-trained Girl, and had been the envy of the other Persons back at the old Stone Tree he and his girl had denned in with her Dam, her Dam's Tom, and her Dam's second litter--he was determined that the Purple Not-Cat would not invade his new territory again. 

Honestly, the Not-Cat actually claimed that this was his territory and not Carnation's, when it clearly was Carnation's because this was where he had traveled in the Moving Box with his Girl's Dam to! Stupid Not-Cat. 

His bathing done, he set out to find his person so he could have food. She'd been woken by the Not-Cat's girl with the confusing name early, and went out in her Second Late-Sleep Day clothes, carrying a strange bag with the interesting-smelling thing from the day before inside, and her going-away bag too. She'd never done that before, particularly not without taking him along! 

Slipping out the Person-flap, he paused briefly to rub his chin along the door frame, loudly proclaiming to all the world that "this is MY den!" That done, he sauntered down the hallway, expertly dodging the Big Ones that were not considerate enough to acknowledge his presence while following the scent of his Girl. Bounding down a very macho manner, he cleared the bottom of the stairway and made his way to the Food Place. His Girl, who was named Harhahek, but called Hehk, had brought him here a few times when they first came to this Big Den. He could scent a bit of spilled milk that had been missed and dried up by the place she had sat, but no Hehk. 

Where was she? 

Mentally shrugging, Carnation picked up another scent trail left by his Girl away from the Food Place. That one led back up to their den, where he took the opportunity to check with the Cold One, who hadn't seen anything due to napping off his weekly meal. Carnation found the Cold One odd, to only need one meal a week, and to have that meal be nothing more than a tiny, insignificant stunted mouse. The Cold One didn't even get a proper chase out of it! 

In any case, he re-marked his territory within the den after visiting his houh box. 

His houh box: rub-rub. "This is mine." 

His and his girl's bed: rub-rub. "This is mine." 

His Girl's clothing places and all within them: rub-rub. "This is mine." 

His scratching tower: rub-rub. "This is mine." 

His Girl's knowledge tree (book case): rub-rub. "This is mine." 

His girl's thinking table (desk): rub-rub. "This is mine." 

His whiskers went forward into a smile, which turned mischievous as he scurried over to the Not-Cat's bed: rub-rub. "This is MINE." 

The Cold One, Gustave, raised his head sleepily and hissed, "The Great One will not be pleased." 

"The Not-Cat should've recognized my territory and not invaded before. Serves the scaly freak right!" 

Gustave, who was actually a rather good friend for all that he was a Cold One, simply let out an exasperated sigh and went back to his nap. Objective completed, Carnation trotted back out the Person-flap, following the second trail his Girl had left. 

Down the stairs again, pausing only for a few pats and strokes from attentive young Big Ones, he came to a confused halt as the trail ended at the main door. Where had Hehk gone? There were a few short back and forth trails of hers, but no long one back in. Every other time she'd gone out, she'd come back home to him long before such a late hour. Where was she? 

"Hehk? He--hk! Why aren't you here? Harhahek!" 

"Oh, ya poor lil' thang! You miss your mama, don'tcha? Well, she'll be back in a few days." 

Carnation froze in shock. Hehk gone? Back in a few DAYS! So deep was his confusion that he didn't notice the girl--Hehk's friend Hahrii--pick him up and carry him back to his den, stroking his pelt and prattling nonsense. 

It just didn't make sense. Hehk had never gone away for so long; not without taking him with her! She must have been kidnapped. Yes! That explained the back-and-forth scent trails. She fought her attackers who dragged her away but, being the cunning and clever Girl--not as cunning or clever as a Person, but certainly a credit to her kind--that she was, she would have fought her way free of her captors repeatedly, only to be felled by some dark and evil foe. His Hehk had been taken from him as he slept, and nobody but him knew it! He must save her! He-

Click-scrape. "Here ya go, sugah, some nice tuna your mama left you. Eat up!" 

...Well, it wasn't like he'd do Hehk much good searching on an empty stomach, and hunting in this place was annoyingly slim. Plus, tuna! He usually only got tuna for a special treat; he couldn't let it go to waste, or worse, let the Purple Not-Cat eat it. 

"All right, you strike a hard bargain, Hahrii. This won't distract me for long, mind you, and then I'll be off and away to save my Girl and- Oh, you didn't say this was Big One tuna! Yum..." 

It was just that easy. 

Author's notes: Dedications and thank-yous and virtual snickerdoodles go to my buddy/beta/continuity guru Gevaisa, who's been the bestest ever with back-and-forth brainstorming. 

Harhahek: Cat pronunciation of "Margaret." 

Hehk: Cat pronunciation of "Meg." 

Houh box: I couldn't remember the correct wording, so I winged it. "Poop" box. 

Ever listened to a cat's sounds? What most people describe as a "meow" actually sounds more like "rau" or an elongated form of the same. I freely admit I took a lot of my inspiration for Carnation's way of thinking from Diane Duane's Cat Wizard series. The book titles to that are "The Book of Night with Moon" and "To Visit the Queen." 

-- Rosy the Cat

5/8/06 


	10. Chapter 10

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of a few chapters back this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms! 

Chapter 10

Back to the Wedding...

So we were seated with Miss Munroe next to the King of Wakanda, then Kitty, then me, then Dr. McCoy on the aisle. We were all asked if we knew Latverian and, when we answered in the negative, were given ear buds that translations of the wedding service would be provided through. Pretty darn cool if you ask me. 

The courtyard was rather pretty, with flowers everywhere--lots of lilacs of varying shades, from white to lavender to violet, which Dr. McCoy told me were a native variety to Latveria. I made a mental note to ask to check Doomstadt tomorrow for a gardening shop or something, because I think Grandma Kidder would love to have lilacs like those in her garden. They'd make a great birthday present for her, I'd bet, and with all these mountains around the area they probably wouldn't have any problems with winter snows back home. 

The last guests had just sat down when the clock down in the town struck ten--time for the wedding!--and doors on either side of the courtyard opened. All of us near the front--the townspeople were towards the back of the courtyard, with the cross-piece of a T of carpet between them and us--turned around in our seats to look. What we all saw was, in my opinion at least, very, very WOW. 

Ms. Florescu was standing on one side with a woman I think it's safe to assume was her mother. She wasn't wearing her veil, but instead it was being held by her mother, and I could see glints of gold from the headband part. Her dress was simple, I suppose, but very pretty: a t-shirt neckline, with a sort of cape-thingy of lace trailing back and down from her shoulders, trailing on the ground behind her. The dress itself was made from a fabric that had been made crinkly, but in a pretty way that gave the material a shimmering wavy look. I'd seen pictures of my mom when she was younger, and when she was my age she used to have a dress made out of material like that, only it was gathered up tightly at the bodice with elastic so it was stretchy and clingy, and the skirt flowed down from an empire waist. I'd thought it was the prettiest dress in the world the first time I saw the picture. It had just been replaced in my mind. 

Ms. Florescu stepped forward, her mother at her side as three flower girls bolted over in front of them and started scattering flower petals. Kitty looked at me oddly when I started giggling, so I had to point out that one of the flower girls wasn't so much scattering her flowers as she was trying her best to imitate fireworks by chucking them. That got Kitty giggling too, and I know I saw Miss Munroe covering her mouth to hide a smile, because her eyes were sparkling in amusement. Dr. McCoy had a bit of a wry grin of his own. 

The best way I can describe Doctor Doom's clothes at his wedding is that they reminded me of a piece of Phantom of the Opera fan art I saw once. One of the few "subtle piss-offs" my Omi has directed at my mother that I actually got some enjoyment out of were tickets to see the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical for my fifteenth birthday, the result of which is that I absolutely adore the story, and read the public library back home's copy of the translated original Leroux novel multiple times. The fan art I was reminded of was supposed to be a depiction of the Leroux Phantom, with a full-face black mask, draped in a black hooded cloak. It was beautiful and mysterious and intimidating and kinda sexy, if something that more than covers everything can be considered sexy, which most people inundated in pop culture probably wouldn't. He had that same sort of look and aura about him, but with a mediaeval monarch twist. And, you know, more colors. And a white tunic for the occasion. And hints of gold and silver to his mask and armor. And fur trimming the edge of his cape. 

Okay, so he really didn't look all that much like the picture when you focus on the details, but the spirit of the whole thing was certainly similar enough if you ignored said details. 

Anyway, there was an exchanging of rings when they met at the carpet's intersection, which I thought was very backward but Dr. McCoy explained was more of an Eastern Orthodox tradition than Western Christian--Protestantism, after all, was derived from Roman Catholicism, so it makes sense that they wouldn't have changed the marriage rites much--and that there would probably be other deviations from the average wedding I would have recognized. I thought it was rather sweet how they had both the bride and groom's family give them away to each other, rather than just the bride, too. Though, come to think of it, I'm not entirely certain whether that was less sexist or more controlling parents-ness. It was still sweet though, and I stand by that observation, damnit! 

So anyway, after the rings were blessed and exchanged, the six flower girls joined up in their efforts to coat the carpeted center aisle with petals in proceeding the bishop, the happy couple and their parent-type-persons. When music struck up at the first step forward, Kitty gasped and poked me to get my attention, gesturing quietly towards the front where a blue-clad woman was singing "Gladly, gladly, We, Rejoicing"--which was to the tune of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," one of my personal favorites--and playing piano. Kitty said that she was Tori Amos and, while I'd never heard her sing before, I had heard of her, at least. It was very pretty. 

Of course, things got a little wacky when the ceremony got to the "Speak now or forever hold your peace" bit! A woman stood up, objecting to Doctor Doom's statement that he didn't have any prior ties to keep him from marrying. To be honest, she looked a lot like Esmeralda from the Disney version of the "Hunchback of Notre Dame," only her skirt was black instead of purple and she looked about forty years older, which really shouldn't have been if she was Doctor Doom's age, and he's about the same age as my mom! Anyway, it turned out she was his ex-girlfriend or something and she was an overblown drama queen who'd wanted him to give up his goals and be poor with her. 

Ch'yah, right lady. Being poor sucks; I know! If I ever have a boyfriend who wants me to give up my dreams and end up with him in a trailer park or something with umpteen malnourished kids with both of us collecting welfare and being fat, lazy slobs or something and living on food stamps, or even just giving up my career goals to be a house wife or something, I'd tell him to "hit the road and don't let the door hit you in the butt!" Honestly! 

So anyway, the woman--whose name was apparently Valeria--was kicked out of the wedding, though not literally--more like escorted out by armed guards--and the ceremony went on. Doom's best man looked rather upset--he's apparently Valeria's grandfather--and I feel for him, poor guy. I hope someone gives him a hug later. 

So, yeah, the wedding went on. It was very pretty, and there was a lot of reading of the Scriptures and, oh yeah, it turned out to be a combined wedding and coronation! I don't know if I am just oblivious or what, but the invitation that Kitty showed me the night before our shopping trip didn't say anything about coronations, and I could have sworn I spotted some semblance of surprise to Ms. Florescu when they came out on the balcony. I don't know, maybe I read too much into things... 

Ahem, back on track: Wedding was pretty and interesting and had some surprises, and then there was the smooching of the bride, happy bells, and happy, cheering people. Aww! How sweet! 

We joined the mad, teeming throng that gradually became the Receiving line, as everyone knows no line is either perfect from start to finish, though I was more used to being in a line where it starts straight as can be but ends up getting bunched up and otherwise raggedy later on, like in grade school. That's when Kitty and I hit upon a snag for the whole day, when we were about twenty people away from the happy couple: 

Me: "OhmyGawd, Kitty, what if they've heard about the Kitchen Incident? We're dead!" 

Kitty: "Meg, relax; we didn't start that, and we really didn't do all that much outside of duck for cover." 

Me: "Excuse me? What did you say, Miss Three-Pie-Chucker?" 

Kitty (sheepish, then indignant): "Well...Err...Hey, you threw pies too!" 

Me: "A pie, one, singular, uno, solitary, nada mas! And that stupid pastry chef deserved that." 

Kitty: "I thought you were aiming for Johnny Storm?" 

Me: "...So my timing was off; if she hadn't slipped in that puddle of sorbet and thus ended up in my line of fire, I so would've nailed that idiot." 

Kitty: "Whatever. Just don't look guilty and everything will be fine." 

Me: "How am I supposed to do that?" 

Kitty: "You've got three brothers and you've never had to fib to get out of anything?" 

Me: "Ah, no. I'm the one out of four kids who is fully aware of my parents' financial situation and thus avoids anything that might waste family resources; therefore, my parents know perfectly well who to blame when something happens, namely the triplets." 

Kitty: "Well, just, I don't know, try the Bambi-eyes look, it's our turn!"

...Yeah, I tried the Bambi-eyes, but behind them my brain was scrambling. What in the world was I supposed to say to these people? I'm borderline terminally-shy around strangers, and half of these strangers are strangers with the literal/diplomatic/metaphorical/whatever power to squish me like a bug! What do I say! "Hi, I'm Meg Kidder and I think you're totally awesome"? No-- no-- no! 

Okay Meg, breathe; maybe you'll get lucky and nobody'll notice you. That seemed to work back in Catholic school and my old high school. And hey, the people I'm with are a whole lot more interesting than me, so...Uh-oh, Ms. Florescu--I mean Queen Joviana--I mean- Oh, you know who I mean! She's looking at me like she's curious. Crap. I hoped my dress hadn't gotten wrinkled or dirty or pollinated or whatever and kicked my Bambi-eyes smile up a click. 

'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me...'

She smiled, and asked, "Of course I know Katherine Pryde, but who is this young lady?"

Horror of horrors, I turned bright red and stammered, "I--I'm Meg. Margaret Kidder, that is."

"Are you in the X-Men?" she inquired, curious. Despite my recent success in shielding myself, my nervousness must have weakened my defenses because I picked up: 'Poor thing--more grist for Xavier's mutant mill.' 

Hey! Excuse me, but Xavier can kiss my pasty derriere for all I care--as an aside, #1, unintentional rhyming cool, #2, old bald guys anywhere near my behind gross and I'm gonna forget it ever entered my mind--so there! 

"No--and I don't want to be! I really want to be a doctor," I blurted out before I could come up with anything more intelligent. As a result, I scrambled to explain myself by saying "I mean, the super hero thing--it's like running in circles."

She looked oddly intrigued by my answer, but her eyes darting back to the Line that Doesn't End indicated things were about over. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, her eyes got a mischievous twinkle that would have looked quite at home on any one of my brothers, along with a fair few of my cousins, and asked the dreaded question: "How did you like your tour of the kitchen?"

I could feel my eyes widen and my face turn an even brighter shade of red before attempting to fix things in some way, since Kitty and my cover had clearly been blown regarding the Kitchen Incident. God help me if the Dweebs ever heard about it! "We didn't do it!"

"It's all right," she assured me. "Thank you so much for coming to our wedding."

"Umm...you're welcome," I said weakly, as the line carried me past her. 

An elbow nudged my ribs and the voice connected to it said, "See, I told you it wouldn't be so bad!" 

"Shut up, Kitty! I thought my face was going to spontaneously combust!" I hissed at my friend. 

Author's notes: As always, this is dedicated to my buddy/beta reader Gevaisa, who rocks! The described fan art can be found at http / www . deviantart . com/ view/ 16741175/

So until later, thanks for reading and please review. Reviews, after all, put a smile on my face! 

-- Rosy the Cat

6/24/06 


	11. Chapter 11

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of a few chapters back this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms! 

Chapter 11

We got through the rest of the reception line with no more delays, thank God. I don't think I could've stood any more nervous embarrassment like that. Maybe if there hadn't been so many other people around I wouldn't have done as badly, and actually had something resembling a real conversation with Queen Joviana, albeit a short one considering the time constraints. 

And then we were directed to our table under the Lunch Pavilion...

"Ooh! Prezzies!"

"...Kitty?" My tone had Miss Munroe glancing back from her discussion with King T'challa, to his annoyance, and Dr. McCoy aborting his meandering wander amongst his super-heroing colleagues that had been vaguely aimed toward the seat with his name on it at their table and re-directed into a beeline toward me. He later told me that he thought all of the emotional stress of the day--and possibly the past month or so--on me had been wreaking havoc on me, and thus I was on the verge of shutdown or something, only he used more technical terms that I ended up looking up in the library. Not pleasant. I was promptly steered into my seat and a server asked to bring me some water and a glass of juice. 

Note to self: no breakfast followed by only a rather small cheese quiche-thingie is not a good thing. It had probably been what had affected my shield control when I met Queen Joviana too, so yeah, I'm definitely not going to skip out on food if I can help it ever again, no matter how nervous I'm feeling at the time. By the time I'd stopped shaking and calmed down, reinforcing my shields to their proper strength again, more people had arrived so the tent was starting to look actually full. That's when I noticed the presents that the guests all received, which was what Kitty had been so enthused about initially. 

"Ooh, books!" 

Kitty grinned and said in a relieved tone, "I think Miss Bookworm is better now." 

I sniffed in faux-indignance, not even suppressing the smile that had lurked itself onto my face, "I'll have you know that, barring Omi Goldberg and my aunts, I'm from a long line of nerds, Miss Dragon-tamer." 

At each place, there were the wedding favors: one beautifully bound and illustrated copy of a Midsummer Night's Dream, and an Everyman Library collection of poems on the subject of marriage--those were what got me giddy, 'cuz, well, BOOKS. I love books, be they text books or sci-fi or fantasy or history or scientific journals, though those last I've always only been able to get a hold of through school or public libraries, and school never had much of any. That Dr. McCoy keeps a bunch in his office and the infirmary AND Xavier's student library quite ably explains why he's in my top three favorite teachers of All Time. Well, so far. 

There was also an 18 karat gold--not gold-plated, but solid gold, commemorative medallion. The front of it showed the happy couple in profile, facing one another, with the date and the Latin phrase 'Quod Deus Iunxit'--which translated as 'Whom God Has Joined.' The back just had what I assumed was the Von Doom crest. Apparently there were also sterling silver versions, one for each Latverian citizen. 

That last item was what got me nervous again. The only gold ANYTHING I've ever owned is my baptismal cross with its chain, which is an heirloom and thus didn't cost my parents anything, and that's rather small and understated while being nonetheless pretty. That makes sense considering I've had it since I was a baby, but still, the medallion is a lot of money; not only just the gold itself, which was about the same size as the Troy Ounce silver coin-shaped ingots I'd seen used in my jewelry classes at my old school, but also it's collectability or whatever. I mean, Mom and Dad each have a wedding band, but those are still rather small and serve an obvious function, and mom has some serious jewelry that she keeps locked into a small safe even though she sold most of her pieces when money got tight--the pieces remaining were Goldberg family heirlooms, like my cross was a Kidder family one, unlike the stuff Omi and Opa bought for Mom when she was my age or whatever. 

The point was, that medallion represented one of two things: 1) a reminder of my experiences today, that I could keep and cherish and show to my children--God willing--someday, or 2) having my immediate family not only in the black, but possibly even with a few small luxuries, for an undetermined as of yet length of time. Damnit, being the responsible oldest child SUCKS sometimes! 

Note to self: keep it in a safe place for the time being, and ask my parents at the mid-term break. Maybe it's naive of me, but I trust their judgment. And until then, I got a cool shiny thing to admire. 

At that point I had to put my gifts to the side as someone directed all of the guests to stand up and turn towards the tent's entrance. 

The steward of the dining room announced, "Their Majesties, King Victor and Joviana, Queen of Latveria." That was apparently the correct way of announcing them; Doctor Doom had "King" in front of his name by right of birth and conquest, while Ms. Flo...Florescu-VonDoom?--who had married up, had the title after her name. The assembly applauded, and they swept in. Queen Joviana's reception gown reminded me most of a simplified, sleeveless version of Neo Queen Serenity's dress in the Anime series and comic books Sailor Moon: an empire waisted dress of gold-embroidered white silk, with a long, flowing float-y skirt and a golden bow defining the waist. Her necklace looked like a branch of wild roses twisted around and magically poofed into silver and emerald leaves with diamonds shaping the flowers. Very pretty, and went with my mental Anime association. 

As they made their way to the high table, Her Majesty looked around at everyone and everything. Big ol' chicken me, I ducked my head instinctively to hide, a slight blush tingeing my cheeks, according to a teasing Kitty. Everyone sat down, and we finally got to look at the menu. 

It said: 

1) Cream of Carrot Soup with Lovage or Pheasant Consommé. 

(Neither of these sounded familiar. At all. I ended up going with the pheasant because it couldn't be too different from chicken, and while I like carrot sticks I hate carrot in any sort of cooked form. Ick.)

2) Green Apple Sorbet.

(Hey, that should be like a sour apple lollipop turned into a frozen lemonade type of thing, right? Yum!) 

3) Grilled Brook Trout on a Bed of Wilted Field Greens; Mamaglia With Herbs. 

(Apparently mamaglia was cornmeal mush, also known as polenta, grits, or semolina. I foresaw for myself just pulling the trout to bits and moving it around the plate, as the only seafood I liked was fried shrimp. Fish sticks always made me gag with their fishy-ness.)

4) Lemon Sorbet. 

(Frozen Lemonade!) 

5) Chicken Roulade with Apricots, Almonds, and Barley; Steamed Mélange of Fresh Vegetables. 

(Okay, ignoring the veggies, that sounds pretty good. Though I didn't know what the heck Chicken Roulade was, apricots are always a plus.) 

6) Pear Sorbet. 

(...Huh?) 

7) Pork Loin with Lemon and Bay Leaves. 

(That sounded pretty darn good, actually.)

8) Salad of Heirloom Beets with Walnuts in a Pomegranate-Citrus Vinaigrette. 

(Umm...No. I'd try it, but I doubted I'd like it.) 

9) Rose Petal and Champagne Sorbet. 

(Well that sounds different.)

10) Wedding Cake. 

(No idea how they're going to pull that off, as I'd seen two wedding cakes pulverized during the Kitchen Incident. Poor cakes, they looked lovely.)

So, yeah, even with me not eating some of the listed courses, I figured I'd end up stuffed to capacity. Yay! 

So there was speech-making by people who obviously knew at least Doctor Doom well enough, and then lunch. I'm pretty sure I made the right decision about the soup, and the green apple sorbet was really, really good, for all that there was only about a spoonful or two. Maybe I can talk to Mom about seeing how expensive something like that would be from a grocery store, because I think that would be pretty tasty and refreshing on a hot summer day in a larger quantity. 

Ooh, and the wedding cake! It ended up being graduated tiers bordered by stood-up mini-sponge cakes, with strawberries and whipped cream, and sugared flowers scattered decoratively on top, so it looked kind of like each level was a miniature fenced garden covered with snow, with spring flowers popping up from underneath. As pretty as the original cakes were, I really liked the cake that ended up being served much better; it just looked more approachable and, well, edible. Tasty, too! 

There was some awkward tension after the last dishes were cleared and Dr. Doom gave a gift to Mr. Fantastic: his--that is, Dr. Richards'--patents. You know, I'd been wondering for a while why the world was so crappy when all sorts of science magazines I'd been reading kept claiming all sorts of environmentally-friendly tech had been invented by the heroing types over the years. It turned out my parents' mildly-paranoid assertions were correct: Big Business was trying to kill everybody by long-term poisoning while destroying the planet's ecosystem. Boo! Hiss! 

On the plus side, who knows what kind of cool hero-inspired medical technology I'd have to play with by the time I was in Med School, not to mention when I finally had my degree! I couldn't suppress a little mental witchy cackle. 

In any case, we all made our way out to the picnic-esque area--though we had chairs under either trees or sun umbrellas--that was seating for the production of Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream," which explained the presence of the book version. 

To be honest, the play confused me from the moment I glanced through the Dramatis Personae. To be specific, most of the character names did not match what was written in the description. Titania, Puck and Oberon largely fit with what I knew from watching Disney's "Gargoyles" when I was younger--Puck rocked, so no giggling!--but seriously, Theseus was NOT the "Duke of Athens," he was the Prince of Athens who ran the Labyrinth of King Minos and killed the Minotaur, brought back the entire group of Athenian youths intended to serve as human offerings to the Minotaur, plus King Minos' daughter, and became King after finding out his father had committed suicide when he mistakenly thought Theseus was dead. And don't get me started on what Shakespeare did to Hippolyta! Arranged marriage my ass! Nobody arranges anything for the frickin' Queen of the Amazons! 

It was a touch easier to suspend disbelief for the parts that didn't involve those two characters, though I did get an occasional annoyed twitch whenever I was reminded that the Bard had shoved Elizabethan social constructs and culture along with Greek and Celtic mythology together like some kind of crazy written smoothie: amalgamated flavor with more than a few chunks of discord that wasn't properly liquefied by the blender. 

It was toward the end of the second intermission that I got another chance to speak to Queen Joviana...

When she stopped by our group and asked us what we thought of the play, Dr. McCoy smiled and replied, "A marvelous interpretation. I'm finding it quite inspiring. Xavier's has never had a tradition of putting on a play—perhaps I will institute one, while I'm there." 

"You're taking up teaching there?" she inquired. 

"For the time being. Professor Xavier's health was taxed during recent…events, and he'll be recuperating for a while, I believe." 

"I hope he recovers swiftly and completely. I think that Xavier's School will only benefit from your tenure there."

"Thank you," said Dr. McCoy. "I think that Latveria—and your new husband—can only benefit from your presence here." 

"How charming of you! I hope your students are enjoying the play as well." 

She looked at the rest of us. Miss Munroe said that, yes, she was, and she appreciated that the Fairy Queen was being played by a woman of color, and Kitty added her appreciation, but I just had to open my big mouth and say, "It's enchanting and beautiful—but it's incredibly inaccurate, historically speaking..." At that point I was just horrified and fervently wishing that I had Kurt's powers so I could poof myself away home to the family apartment and hide under my bed in embarrassment. 

"Well, yes," she agreed. "If you think of the characters as having been named for the historic figures, maybe that will help."

"Err, yeah. Thank you," I managed to get out without squeaking, thank GOD. Nevertheless, I had a sneaking suspicion that I was blushing like crazy. Surprisingly enough, Queen Joviana's advice helped a great deal, and I stopped feeling the need to cringe all the time during the rest of the play. Go team me! 

So, after the final curtain call, we mingled with the other guests for a while, though I unfortunately have to admit I finally conked out for the night less than halfway through the fireworks, and was brought around thus: 

Kitty: "Meg? Wake up; we have to back to the hotel now." 

Me (grumbling sleepily): "Wake up and go to bed; is there any sillier statement a person can make?" 

Kitty: "Probably. Let's go, we've got a long flight tomorrow, and then back to classes." 

Me: "No me gusta." 

So...we went back to the hotel. And I crashed into bed after changing into my pajamas and hanging up my Nice Dress. That's it. 

Author's notes: As always, this is dedicated to my buddy/beta reader Gevaisa, who rocks! Further dedication goes to my beloved princess kitty-daughter, who passed away over a month ago only a few days away from her twentieth birthday: 

Now in God's Grace In all her Fluffy Majesty, Katrina Chrystal 1986-2006

So until later, thanks for reading and please review. Reviews, after all, put a smile on my face! 

-- Rosy the Cat 9/22/06 


	12. Chapter 12

Don't Kid a Kidder

by Rosy the Cat

Disclaimer: I do not in any way, shape, or form own X-men and the various comics titles and movies, etc. They belong to Marvel. I do, however, own in the creative sense Margaret Kidder, her family and any other original characters I end up writing into this story. Steal anything of mine without permission, and I'll round up a lynch mob of my fellow writers. This story was inspired by Gevaisa's "Minion" and "Lady Doom," which both kick ass, as does she. Before anybody launches any protests, she knows quite well what I'm doing and she's probably more excited about it than I am. In fact, as of a few chapters back this story has joined continuities with the "Minion" saga. Huzzah for friendships in fandoms! 

Chapter 12

July 22nd, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Well, here we are, back on our International Magical Mystery Tour! ...Or, well, heading back to school from Latveria. I did manage to stop by a gardening shop to pick up a potted Latverian Lilac for Grandma's birthday, which Miss Munroe says I can keep in the school's greenhouse until the day of the party. Yay! It made the whole plane smell ever-so-pretty, too. 

Anyway, the trip back to the States was largely uneventful, though I did get to talk to Dr. McCoy about my assisting in the Infirmary--I WILL be getting paid! Yippee!--as well as further exploring his interest in starting up a tradition of School Plays. I cast my vote for musicals, personally, though I suppose that would mean that Xavier would have to start looking into developing a music and possibly a dance department. Miss Munroe mentioned possibly talking Alison Blaire into taking a job for such a purpose. I'm giddy in anticipation. 

So...I've finished both of the books I packed, plus the ones I received as gifts, so I'm gonna try and nap until we land. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

Carnation's POV...

Hehk is coming home! I heard it from Hahrii's own mouth! I could almost sing! 

"Please don't," muttered the Purple Not-Cat. I flicked my tail at it dismissively. What does he know about Art, anyway? Barbarian. I think I'll go check out that one funny-smelling place I found yesterday...

Wait, what's this? My Hehk is home! Oh joy of joys! 

Carnation Kidder bolted out of the room via the door's cat flap, Lockheed close behind him. 

Back to Meg...

"High Ho, back to school we go," I sighed, scrubbing away a last eye booger while getting a better grip on my bags before crossing the threshold. 

Kitty smiled at me, but it lit up into a grin at the sight of a REALLY tall black-haired guy standing in the entryway. 

"Peter!" 

"Oh, my Katya!" 

And there was smooching. A lot of it. Gah. Fortunately my attention was diverted when I had to drop everything and catch a leaping cat, even as I side-stepped Lockheed the Purple Dragon, who was equally determined to greet his mistress. I sighed with relief and huggled my precious babykins close. 

"Hello, my fuzzy darling. Missed me?" Carnation simply kicked his purring up a notch or ten and set to work re-marking me with his chin gland. "Aww, I love you too, Sweetie." At that point I managed to juggle the cat enough to get a firm hold on all bags again, and carefully made my way upstairs. I needed to unpack, and then get cracking on my class reading and homework. Thank God for weekends! 

Carnation's POV...

Okay, so maybe I overreacted regarding Hehk being gone for a few days. 

...Nah. But the important thing was that she was back now, and she's taking me with her for dinner downstairs. Yay! 

As she seats us both, setting down her food tray, which includes a bowl of tuna for me, she turns to Hahrii and says, "Thanks again for watching Carnation for me, Marie; I think I would have gone nuts worrying otherwise." 

"No problem, Sugah. He's an affectionate li'l thing," this was punctuated by her gloved fingers scritching lightly through my fur. Bliss. 

"...Huh. Hey Marie?" 

"Yup?" 

"Do you know if your powers affect animals, or is it just humans?" 

Hahrii blinked, and then looked at me. I looked at Hahrii and blinked. 

"What? Do I have tuna up my nose?" 

Hahrii slowly tugged at the black gloves she wore, baring pale skin. Nervously--I don't have the foggiest notion why she'd be nervous--she held the uncovered hand out in front of my nose. After a cursory sniff, I licked the hand and sneezed from the taste of dyed leather, then bumped her palm with my head. 

"Pet me, silly. There's nothing wrong with you." At that point, she yanked the other glove off and swept me up in a hug, tears dampening my fur. 

"Hey! I spent hours getting that to look right!" 

Hehk was beaming at me, kissed the top of my head after Hahrii finally let me go, and carried me off to our den with promises of petting and playing. I don't know what the fuss is all about, but I guess I'll see if I can't find a present for my Harhahek tomorrow; I've missed her. 

July 23rd, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Saturday! Glorious, most wonderful day in the week! A day of cartoons, sugary cereals, and sleeping in. I get a smile just thinking about it. 

Beyond that, my plans for today consist of homework and relaxing with friends and my cat. I'll probably have to do something else at some point, but eh, I'll take things as they come. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

I was right, of course. I'd just finished the chapter for Monday's English class down in the school library when Kurt told me Dr. McCoy wanted to ask me something. Turned out he was intrigued by my impromptu experiment with Marie regarding the limits of her powers, and that now she wanted a pet of her own to snuggle at whim. I recommended a Humane Society shelter that I'd volunteered at last year, and then had to scribble down directions. Marie went off on her happy way with Bobby into the city to pick up a kitten--she'd actually wanted a puppy, but I pointed out that her second-floor room was a bit of a way from any sort of reasonable outside access, whereas cats could be trained to use a litter box--and Dr. McCoy started quizzing me on what I already know of First Aid. 

I start work on Monday after classes, two hours a day and three on the weekends. Yay! 

July 24th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Church. I'm determined to attend every choir rehearsal from now on, baring school breaks and weekend visits home or whatever. Sister Justine said she understood that I was still getting used to my different school schedule, and that she'd see me at Wednesday Mass. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 25th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Back to the classwork grindstone. Nothing much else to say. 

Ooh, wait, yes I do! I forgot to mention yesterday that Marie's got a new kitty of her own: a little girl Calico named Pun'kin, based on the fact that Marie thinks she's, and I quote, "The sweetest li'l thang since Pun'kin Pie!" The cat can cause cavities, she's so cute; and her mother's just as bad with the baby talk. 

I'm not nearly so bad, am I Pookie? 

...And my cat's looking at me like I'm crazy, and heading out to be all manly and hunt. They grow up so fast. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 26th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Classes again. Homework to do, Lab Reports to type, inventory to take in the Infirmary, and a rough-draft of my first History report of the year due on Friday. 

On an odder note, I had to rush Carnation to Dr. McCoy this morning when I found him having seizures next to the corpse of some weird hairless rat. Dr. McCoy thinks Carnation must have been bitten by a snake on his way into the school from out back with the rat, and collapsed outside my room. He gave Carnation a kitty-sized dose of anti-venom and told me to keep him still and quiet. I dropped the cat off on my bed snuggled in his blanket and tossed the freaky rat in the outside dumpsters before class. 

I wonder why the rat was hairless; it didn't look sickly or anything, after all...

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 27th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Carnation is feeling much better, now that he's had some rest and food. 

Classes were normal, and the rough draft is progressing well. I've decided to write on the Puritans and their impact on modern laws and social interactions. I'm thinking about comparing their views of "Religious Freedom" to Magneto's views of "Mutant Equality," namely that "We want a place where we can live how we like, and then, once we're the majority there, we'll persecute everybody else!" 

Seriously, I've been reading all sorts of accounts how Native Americans and Quakers and such were all treated like crap by the Pilgrims, that or forced to conform to their views. And everyone with any sense can see Magneto needs a swift kick to the patoot! 

On a lighter note, Choir rehearsal went well; Sister Justine says that I should be able to join in on Sundays by August 7th. That's Sunday after next. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 28th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

Dad called while I was working; school in the city was canceled due to Costumed Nutjob Attack again, so the family's heading out to visit Grandma, and will be by to pick me up for the weekend tomorrow. I won't be actually leaving until after Choir rehearsal, but yay, I get to have family time! 

Classes. Blarg. 

Oh, wait, yeah, about work: Sophia got freaked out by one of the little-er kids' powers making his ears suddenly grow like Dumbo, at which point she slipped on a horse turd someone forgot to clear off of the lawn near the stables--and no, it wasn't my horse's turd; I tend to stick to the marked trails, corrals, and the woods around the campus--twisted her ankle and got the wind knocked out of her. 

I made a comment that maybe she shouldn't wear those stupid spike heels all the time, which got me a glare from Sophia and an I-agree-but-can-we-not-provoke-the-injured-snake-charmer look from Dr. McCoy. So I went and got an ice pack and some Ace Bandages. She still bitched far too much about the whole thing. 

One last thing: after dinner, Carnation met me outside the dorm room with another "present," this one not even remotely normal. I swear, my soul to heaven, it was an over-sized blue salamander with orange spots. Want to know what was even weirder? It had eight legs. 

At that point I dug out some old raggedy winter gloves, Carnation's kitty litter scooper, and a couple of paper towels from the bathroom. I used the scooper to move the freaky amphibian onto the paper towels, and then carried it to Dr. McCoy's office by the corners. 

I got to help dissect the thing; it was really ooky, with what looked like three hearts and- I just can't describe it. Dr. McCoy's sending a DNA sample, along with some pictures from the dissection to an old colleague for a second opinion, but we're both pretty sure something nowhere near normal is going on. Especially since we caught Carnation going toe-to-toe with another hairless rat by the bathroom on the way to my dorm; a brief look at that sucker let us determine that Carnation wasn't bitten by a snake earlier this week. The hairless rats have poisonous fangs. Can I just say "GAH!" ? 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

July 29th, 2005: 

Dear Diary,

TGIF! No truer words have ever been spoken, I think. 

Well, I got my paper rough draft in to Kurt--did I mention he took over teaching the History classes from Miss Frost? He did, and he's the bestest EVAH!--and I think I did rather well. Here's hoping for some good feedback, at least, for my revisions. 

Dr. McCoy surprised me by giving me the day off from work today, so I can spend more time with my family before we leave. Though that might just be Xavier pushing him to give out good PR, just in case one or two or all of the Dweebs end up Mutants (Gosh, that's a scary idea: The Triplets with super powers! Makes me cringe all over inside). In any case, he hasn't heard back from his friend about the hairless rat or the eight-legged salamander yet. 

TTFN,

Margaret Kidder. 

Well, classes are done for the day and my parents are here. Yippee! 

My brothers have spotted Lockheed and are doing their best to scare the crap out of him, which has set me to chasing them around the first floor threatening them with death and dismemberment while simultaneously hoping that they don't cause irrevocable harm to the mini-dragon, because then Kitty might go Kung-fu on their behinds and cry. That would be bad because one, I don't want my friend to cry, and two, if the triplets get hurt my parents will blame me for not watching them close enough. 

In any case, I finally managed to boost Lockheed up on top of a bookcase in the game room, and then sat the Dweebs in front of the TV with Game Cube controllers in their hands and Mario Cart loaded on the console. 

And there was much rejoicing. 

So there I was, sitting on a couch with my parents introducing them to Kitty, Marie and Bobby, when Bobby asked the inevitable: 

"How the heck do you tell those three apart, Maggie?" 

"Oh for pity's sake, Bobby, my name is MEG, not 'Maggie'. How many times do I have to tell you?" 

Kitty spoke up, "Actually, I've been wondering that myself; I mean, Maggie just sounds like a closer derivative of Margaret, after all; more than Meg, anyway." 

Mom took pity on me and explained, "Well, Meg's named after my mother, Magda and, while we did call her Maggie for a few years, it never really stuck." At the curious looks, she explained, "Maggie was my father's nickname for my mom, so calling for 'Maggie' tended to have two people calling back 'What' all of the time at family parties. That, and I'm a Phantom of the Opera fan." 

"Long live Erik/Christine!" Mom and I both chirped, giving each other high-fives, to the amusement of all. 

"As for the triplets," I continued where Mom had left off, "you can tell the difference based on their hair." 

My friends stared at the guys, then gave me a weird look. Marie broke the silence. 

"Ah, sugah, they all have buzzes." 

"Exactly; it makes it more obvious." 

I was still getting weird looks, with a side of incredulous, so I sighed and explained, "Noah, on the right," he freed one hand from the controller long enough to wave distractedly, "has a cowlick on the back of his head. When he's gone a bit too long without a haircut, it makes him look kinda like a cartoon duck, which is why his nickname is Ducky." 

"Bite me." 

"Back at'cha. William, or Billy, the one in the middle, has a cowlick in the front to one side. And Jacky--or John Marcus Kidder Jr.--doesn't have a cowlick; he's got a birthmark shaped like a goldfish cracker below his left earlobe on his neck." 

"Wait, which one is Jacky?" asked Kitty. 

"The one on the lef- Okay, where's Jacky?" 

Billy piped up, saying "He said he had to go to the bathroom." 

"Oh, just brilliant," I grumbled. "I'll go get him. Knowing my luck, the little booger's probably using the one near the dorm so he has an excuse to see Gustave and be annoying. I'll be back in a minute," this last bit said to my parents before I headed off upstairs. 

Unfortunately, when I opened the bathroom door I found a glowing swirly blob that stretched across the doorway from floor to about chest height on me. The triplets, or one of the younger students, would have been just the right size. I double-checked my dorm for my brother, but upon finding no sign of him, and a hairless rat wandering into the hallway from the swirly-glowy thing, I kicked it back through, slammed the bathroom door shut, and called in the big guns. 

"MOM! DAD! DR. McCOY! JACKY'S BEEN SUCKED INTO A GLOWY PORTAL-THINGIE! AND IT'S NOT MY FAULT!" 

Author's notes: Eek! My muse is on a rampage! Why, why must it be so when I have a paper due tomorrow that I've barely started on, plus two more due on Thursday? WHY! 

...Eh, I'm done for now. My muse had better stay away until Friday though, or I might go nuts. 

Hahrii: Cat pronunciation of "Marie." 

Harhahek: Cat pronunciation of "Margaret." 

Hehk: Cat pronunciation of "Meg." 

Ever listened to a cat's sounds? What most people describe as a "meow" actually sounds more like "rau" or an elongated form of the same. I freely admit I took a lot of my inspiration for Carnation's way of thinking from Diane Duane's Cat Wizard series. The book titles to that are "The Book of Night with Moon" and "To Visit the Queen." 

As always, this is dedicated to my buddy/beta reader Gevaisa, who rocks! 

So until later, thanks for reading and please review. Reviews, after all, put a smile on my face! 

-- Rosy the Cat

9/25/06 


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